


Holding Your Own Weight

by zjofierose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 1880s, 1890s, 19th Century, Alive Erica, Alive Vernon Boyd, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Erica, Awesome Laura Hale, BAMF Lydia Martin, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erica and Isaac are Twins, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, Jackson is a horse's ass, Lydia is Perfect, M/M, Original Universe, Religion, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Skinny Dipping, Stiles is a trapeze artist, Teen Wolf Reverse Bang, The Hale Pack - Freeform, Warning: Kate Argent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski is the best trapeze artist west of the Mississippi, but that doesn't do him much good without a catcher. Enter one quiet roughneck who calls himself Derek and knows maybe a little too much about circus arts for someone who was hired to schlep tents. But Derek has his secrets, and so does the new girl, Allison. Who's being hunted and who's being haunted, and will Stiles ever be able to convince Derek to help him fly again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 (Just a young boy and his ring)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this one got a little out of hand. 
> 
> This was written as part of the [Teen Wolf Reverse Bang](http://twreversebang.livejournal.com/), and the lovely art can be found [here, by Elica](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1169582). Go check it out!
> 
> I blame [paintedlandscape](http://paintedlandscape.tumblr.com/) for all of this- without her, I would never have watched Teen Wolf, much less agreed to sign up for a reverse bang. I also owe her a million thanks, a thousand hugs, and a multitude of mai tais for the incredible amount of encouragement, harassment, hand-holding, beta-ing, brainstorming, cajoling, pleading, reminding, reading, revising, editing, and listening to me whine that she has done throughout the creation of this little monster. You are the best, and I could NOT have done this without you. :)
> 
> I could also not have done this without the wonderful emmessann, who red-inked like crazy and then helped me build a much better story, and who also always gives me a hand to hold when I need it. Likewise the delightful [Miss Elle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science), who is the loveliest friend, funniest beta, and gets all the credit for the chapter titles, and last but not least, the fantastic [the_deep_magic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/the_deep_magic/pseuds/the_deep_magic), who read an early draft and demanded MOAR NOW, which led me to, you know, write another chapter or two.
> 
> Also, my husband, who is endlessly supportive, no matter which fictional characters I'm forcing to kiss. <3
> 
>  **Trigger warnings include:** canon-typical violence (an on-screen beating, some off-screen murders), dub-con Kate coming on to some characters, mention of Bad Touch Kate/Derek, angst, poor emotional decision making, mention of rape as a thing that happens in the world, crazy religious wing-nuts (it's a made-up religion, but they're about what you'd expect), and the sexism and racism typical of the late 1880s. If you find something I haven't thought to tag, please comment, and I will tag it!
> 
> (to write this, I spent a lot of time watching youtube videos of amazing rope tricks and extreme gymnastics- if you want to see, try [this one, which I based a lot of Stiles' moves on, but also](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Alx7DT7sbeo), [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yzrWYhQePuA), [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9_-vNRi3Cs), [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=euQ28VeN-Ec), and [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6rnl0MvexnI).)
> 
>  
> 
> _"I've been doing lots of trapeze, and so much of it is holding your own weight."_  
>  -Patina Miller

 

He signs his name on the line, feeling a little sick, but blanks his face and hands the pen back across the low table. The man across from him takes it carefully, pulling the contract back to face him, and nods.

"Welcome to Deaton's, Mr. Hale." His eyes are dark and assessing. "Let's get you settled."

\--

The first couple of days are a blur; he's caught Deaton's near the end of their summer travels through the southern half of the state, right before they return to their winter grounds. It's a flurry of the last two shows, and then the highly choreographed chaos that is a circus getting on the road. He's the lowest of the low; both newest, and signed on specifically as a roughneck, no other skills; so he flings himself into the work with abandon. He schleps trunks of costumes, brings down tent poles, helps to fold vast swaths of canvas, sorts and totes and pushes and pulls and collapses onto his cot at night to sleep the sleep of the nearly dead.

It's the best he's felt in years.

\--

They're on the train heading north, just past Bakersfield, when the strong man comes climbing over the tops of the cars to join him. Derek is pretty certain that his name is Boyd, though they haven't been formally introduced- he'd been in charge of a lot of the tent breakdowns, and had seemed grateful to have an extra pair of hands available, no matter whose they were. He swings down from the roof with ease and settles himself in the open door of the boxcar next to Derek, nodding amicably as he situates himself on the metal floor, legs hanging over the edge.

They sit for some moments in companionable silence, watching the scenery go by- it's the very end of October now, but still blazing hot out here by the side of the desert. The angle of sun tells him it's coming up on the last part of the year, but the heat and the dirt and the brushy overgrowth say it's the height of summer. Derek's glad they're heading north; he can't imagine what winter must be like in this overheated place, and for all that he's run away and put the whole of a continent between him and his past, he likes his life to be predictable. It's why he's come back to the circus after years away- nothing else was right, nothing else was what he knew, nothing else was where he fit. California, so far, is also not what he knows or where he fits, but he's open to the thought that maybe it's not all the same. It's vast, if nothing else, so there has to be some variation.

"Vernon Milton Boyd IV." The man sticks out one large, callused hand. “Call me Boyd.”

"Derek." He shakes it, a little surprised at the firm, but delicate grip.

"Appreciated your help back there." Boyd's voice is a quiet baritone, western accent and matter of fact. "You're familiar with circus work."

"Yes." Derek pauses. Deaton himself clearly had recognized his name, but as the owner and manager, it's his business to know about other shows. Besides, the Hales had worked in the same circus as Deaton's sisters- he'd never known the man personally, but Deaton had known his parents. The rest of the folk... he's not sure. California's a long way from where they were, but his family was well-known, and he just wants a fresh start- no family, no name, no history. "I grew up with it." He shrugs casually, turns his face back to the rolling hills.

Boyd just nods noncommittally, stares off into the hazy distance. After a minute, he pulls out a flask from inside his vest. He takes a long pull, passes it over to Derek.

"Nice to have someone who knows what they're doing."

Derek takes a drink, shivering as the warmth slides down his throat. It's strong stuff, but refined, and he makes a mental note to find out where Boyd has gotten this particular stash once they're settled again in another couple days. He nods, passes the flask back.

"Nice to be somewhere my skills are appreciated."

\--

The flurry of unloading is still chaotic, but less urgent- from what he understands, the circus winters in this same place every year for about six months; it's the closest thing to a permanent home they'll ever have, and the excitement at return seems to be pervasive. He still hasn't officially met most of the performers- everyone had been too busy with the final shows and the breaking down and loading of circus to do a meet and greet before they'd left, and they'd all ridden in the passenger cars on the way up. He'd preferred to keep to himself in the boxcar at the end of the train, and though they clearly knew about him, they had seemed to be allowing him to keep his distance for the moment. Boyd would come to visit each afternoon, and they'd pass a few hours smoking and drinking quietly before Boyd would climb back over the roofs of the rolling train cars and leave him to his solitude. It had been almost unnerving how relaxed the trip had made him, the warm sun and the thrumming of the wheels. He'd slept more than he had in years, written a few letters to his family that he'll burn later, and then slept some more. The nightmares came, of course, but alone in his boxcar there was no worry of waking anyone.

He's learned to identify a few of them by sight, and has put a few names to faces from a couple of Boyd's stories. The Lovely Lydia is the petite girl with the strawberry hair and the bearing of a queen. He assumes the sour faced but pretty man who follows her around is her horse trainer, Joseph? Joshua? Jasper? Something like that. Deaton himself Derek knows, of course, and he thinks the agile blonde with the huge dark eyes must be Boyd's sweetheart, Erica. He's not sure what she does yet, but given her flexibility and charisma, she's a performer, not a seamstress or a cook or a teacher. He thinks the tall boy with the curly blond hair that matches Erica's is her brother Isaac, and he remembers from the flyers posted all over San Bernadino that Isaac is the sad faced clown. He can really see it- the boy is cherubic and lithe, projecting an air of faintly downcast innocence that must be a complete lie for someone who's grown up in the circus.

There are more than just the main attractions, of course- a couple of other roustabouts like himself, the cooks, the bookkeeper, the ticket taker, the security man, assorted children and family members. For all that it's the most famous show in the west, however, Deaton's is small in a way that surprised him. It must have shown on his face when Deaton had given him the pre-signing run-down, because Deaton had shrugged and said, "It's a job, but it's an art. We don't carry any excess here." It worries him a little bit, niggling in the back of his mind, because he knows that if he's not good enough, Deaton will cut him loose. They've clearly not hired in a while, and he suspects it's less that they needed another set of muscles and a mouth to feed than it was that Deaton remembers Derek's parents fondly, but at this point Derek is not in a position to be choosy about how he gets this job, no matter how much like blood money it may feel.

The place they've pulled up looks like an abandoned mining camp or immigrant town, boarded up and lonely at the end of this particular spur of tracks. They'd pulled into Sacramento from the south, having moved from desert to mountains to field after field after field, and then eventually to orchards with fallen leaves. The city is big for out here, he knows, but he can't help but to compare it to the cities back east and find it lacking. The river is beautiful, shining in the late year sun, but they'd passed by it on the tracks, moving through the city and a little ways past, finally pulling off about a mile outside the edge of town into a clutch of small little houses and the end of a railroad spur.

The train shudders to a stop at the end of the track and a raucous cheer rises up from the cars, punctuated by a sudden explosion of bodies and colors and noise as the troupe tumbles out into the nearing dusk. Derek grabs his knapsack and hops lightly down, wandering slowly toward the crowd. A sudden stab of loneliness grabs him in the guts, and he falters, watching as people pour into the little cabins, and lamps flicker on behind striped-curtained windows. It's a homecoming, with families, and all he can feel is so very alone.

"You're this way." Boyd claps him on the shoulder, calmly ignoring whatever expression must be all over his face, and gets him walking over to the west side of the little housing cluster. "You'll want to give it a good sweeping down, and a good airing out- it hasn't been lived in for a while, but it should still be sound." Boyd gestures to a lean, dark haired man across the way, “Talk to Danny if you need any supplies, he can help you out.” They come to a stop in front of a cabin that is the slightly smaller brother of its already compact siblings. Derek doesn't care- it's got a roof, and isn't on wheels. That'll be more than enough for a while. "Here you are." Boyd presses a thick key into his hand. "We don't worry about each other, and we're pretty far out from town, but..." he scratches the back of his head awkwardly.

"...but there are some who'll go the distance" Derek finishes for him.

Boyd nods with something that looks like embarrassment. "Yeah. Every so often. So. We take precautions." He straightens back up, gestures at the cabin immediately to the east of Derek's. This one has floral curtains, and a lamp already flickering. "You'll be neighbors with the Stilinskis. Good folk, them."

"Stilinski..." Derek thinks for a second, pictures the posters in his mind's eye. "He's the flier, right?"

Boyd half nods, half shakes his head. "He was a flier, when he had a catcher. But he's a solo act now. Does a damn fine job of it. His father's our security; old cowboy who's good with a gun. Good man, Stilinski. And the kid, too." He claps Derek on the arm again, hard enough to make him stagger. "I'll leave you to drop your bag and open the windows. Then come meet me by the tent car." He smiles, his teeth white in his dark face, and ambles off.

The key sticks for a minute, worrying him as he wiggles it, but it gives after a moment and the door swings creakily open. Some oil, then, he thinks to himself, to get the hinges and tumblers moving smoothly again. He can talk to Danny later, ask him where to find it.

The space is bare and simple, just as he'd expected. A rope-strung frame with a straw tick sits against the wall to his left under a small window, a couple of shelves braced on the wall above its head. There's a little potbellied stove in the middle of the room, and some firewood still stacked in a box to the side. To his right there's a table big enough for two, and a pair of accompanying ladder-back chairs shoved against it. A small, plain sideboard with a wash basin, bucket, and dipper fills the wall to the right of the stove, and to the left of the stove waits a hip-high chest of three drawers. A couple of other shelves are mounted above the two windows at the front of the room. It's the biggest space he's had to himself in... possibly his life, now that he thinks about it. He fights down the pain that comes with remembering a childhood of sharing with his siblings, and forces himself to focus on the gratitude that comes instead with seeing how well-appointed this space is compared to the other living quarters he's endured since, well, in a long time.

He throws his bag on the bed, leaning over it to creak open the window, and accidentally kicks the chamber pot underneath. It's a good discovery; he remembers seeing a bank of four or five outhouses a little ways down the row of cabins, but come winter nights, he'll be glad not to make the trek. The window over the table is too stubborn to open for him, and he makes a note to get that oil sooner, rather than later. He's feeling almost cheerful with the prospect of staying in one spot, of having a door and windows to call his own, and even neighbors, so he shoves the key into his pocket and slams the door, heading off to work off the accompanying burst of energy by unloading the train.

\--

It's a full week till their first show back, and everyone is slow and lazy with the unaccustomed time off. Cabins are cleaned inside and out, and repairs are made as needed- Derek saw the older Stilinski cleaning and re-hanging the shutters of their cabin while his son capered about on the roof with a hammer, ostensibly fixing... something. Laundry hangs on the lines between the cabins, an amusing profusion of wool leotards and bursts of brightly colored crinolines, side by side with the more usual cotton trousers and work dresses and bedding. The animals are all groomed within an inch of their lives, and set out to roam in the largest animal pens Derek's ever seen. There's something to be said about being out west, he supposes; there's space enough still that no one's going to get too worked up about seeing how the lions like to stalk the rabbits and raccoons that get into their large and casually fenced enclosure.

He gets the oil for his hinges and lock, and dusts the cobwebs out of his corners. The roof seems sound enough, and he figures if it's not, he'll find out as soon as it rains, and fix it then. He helps Boyd and the other two roughnecks set up all the tents, the big top, and the adjoining performers' tents, and helps Isaac re-paint the wooden borders for the rings. He spends a truly miserable day with Jackson in the barns grooming the horses' hooves and repairing their stalls and gear- Jackson is apparently the biggest stuffed shirt in the circus, and Derek gives thanks repeatedly and at length that evening that he does not have to work closely with him on any sort of regular basis.

By day four, though, all the work has been done, and folks are starting to get restless, Derek among them. The women decide to make a trip into town, dressing up in the closest things to street fashion that Derek has yet seen any of them wear. They commandeer a wagon, and a few of the men decide to go along as well to pick up supplies and visit the saloon. Boyd is going, and comes over to see if Derek wants to come along, but he shakes his head. He's got his eye on the river down the hill. It's running slow, but full, and Derek wants to see what he might be able to catch.

The wagons are off in a cloud of dust and a clamor of voices, Lydia's hair glinting in the sun, and suddenly the camp is mostly empty and quiet. It's only ten in the morning, not yet the heat of the day, and Derek shoves his hands into his pockets in satisfaction as he heads back to his cabin to gather his supplies.

\--

The river is as fat and lazy as he had hoped. He thinks about setting up, dropping his lines, and taking a nap, but it's still early in the day, and he's spent too much time in the past fortnight just sitting, whether in trains or wagons or just waiting in some anonymous location for something to begin. It's warm enough that he rolls up his shirtsleeves and opens his collar as he walks, wandering aimlessly north along the river's edge. The sun is hot, but there's a good breeze blowing, moving through the tall grass and rippling the surface of the water. He's lost track of time -nothing to do and nowhere to be- when he's brought back to the present by a sudden earsplitting shriek and an impressive sounding splash.

There's a second splash as he rounds the curve of the bank, and more shrieking. Kids, clearly, taking advantage of the weather to enjoy a last swim before the Indian summer ends. They might be on to something, he thinks wryly, pulling the damp fabric of his shirt away from his chest. He can see the shape of a bridge coming into sight, an aging railroad trestle positioned nicely over the wide point of the water.

A lithe figure climbs out of the water and goes sprinting for the bridge, pale rear bare to the sun. Derek pauses to watch him clamber up and walk out onto the trestle itself, collecting himself at the edge. The boy pauses, gauging the distance, then rolls forward into a flawless triple flip before landing a perfectly aimed cannonball that swamps his companion.

"Show-off!"

The second boy is mopping his face and laughing, splashing a small wave into the face of the first as he surfaces. It takes a minute, but Derek's close enough now to recognize them. It's Stilinski who jumped, which, Derek thinks, of course. His friend is the lion tamer, he's pretty sure- the son of the circus nurse, McCall, somebody McCall. He's seen the two of them horsing around the camp together- Stilinski perched precariously on the top of the lion pen fencing while McCall put the big cats through their routine, McCall calling out encouragement as Stilinski checked the height and heft of his newly-hung hoop and bar. They look like brothers, both dark haired and brown eyed, but McCall is heftier, and maybe slightly older, his musculature dense and sturdy. Stilinski has the definition of his skills, his muscles tightly delineated, but he's still growing into them, leaving his body lean and wiry where his friend is solid.

Derek turns to go.

"Hey!"

He takes another step, then hears a scrabbling of water and undergrowth behind him.

"Hey! You! Guy!"

Stilinski is out of breath from the jump and dash up the hill, but he grabs Derek's arm and pants at him through a winning smile, water dripping down his hand to wet Derek's skin.

"Derek."

" _Derek_! Right! My new neighbor!" Stilinski shakes his head sharply, sending a smattering of water droplets into the air, and gestures expansively at the river. "You should join us! The river's great!"

He wants to hesitate, especially when he sees the vague frown on McCall's face, but Stilinski is already dragging him down the bank.

"Just leave your clothes here with ours. C'mon! Scott, tell him!"

"You should come in." Scott looks dubious, and Derek's inclined to agree, but at this point he thinks it would be rude to resist any further, so he drops down to pull off his boots and socks. Stilinski goes running for the bridge again as Derek stands up to undo his belt and drop his pants, and Derek pauses in unbuttoning his shirt to watch. The boy holds himself for a moment in the middle of the span, judging the drop and wiggling his toes, then lets loose with some sort of half-piked twist before finishing with the same colossal splash. He surfaces, roaring with laughter, as Derek pulls off his shirt. He debates for a second, but ends up leaving his small things on- it's silly, probably, but he's always been a little more private.

"Stop woolgathering and show us what you can do!"

Stilinski has his hands cupped to his mouth, his encouragement echoing between the banks. Derek makes his way to the trestle, carefully edges out to the center.

"C'mon, Derek, it's not that high!"

Not that high is all a matter of context to an aerialist, he supposes- it seems plenty high enough to him, but... they've both clearly done it many times and been fine. There's no indication of rocks beneath the water...

"Oh, c'mon, Stiles, he's a First of May, give him a break. He's scared."

A Firstie, huh. Derek rocks forward on his toes, stuffs any doubts he may have deep down into himself, and rolls forward into an exact imitation of the dive he'd seen Stilinski do as he walked up.

He breaks the water to find that Stilinski is rolling around on the bank laughing like a loon, while Scott crosses his arms and huffs at him.

"Oh, _Christ_ , Scott, your face! You should never, ever..." he pauses to wipe a tear, "never underestimate one of us, how do you still not know this? My god..." Stilinski raises his face to look at Derek and beams. "Well done, Derek, well done!" He dissolves into laughter again. "Oh, Scott... you should have seen..."

Derek and Scott eye each other warily as Stilinski moves from laughing to deep breathing interspersed with giggles. Finally Scott rolls his eyes, and kicks over to stick out his hand.

"Good job." He pauses, considers. "Though your last twist was a little incomplete. Might want to ask Stiles to give you some pointers." He grins wolfishly, and Derek laughs, nods.

Maybe he will.

\--

He walks back with them as the sun sinks lower in the sky, wandering behind as they push and tussle and laugh and fight in front of him. Stilinski is loud and constant, a stream of thoughts and ideas and stories falling from his opened mouth as they walk; commentary on the clouds _("that one looks like wolf!"_ ), discussion of a new trick _("and then, she said if you pull your left foot up high enough, you can..."_ ), questions about the lions ( _"do you still have their kitten teeth? Any of them? Can I have one? Please? Scott, c'monnn..."_ ), insults and praise to their various colleagues (" _No wonder Jackson works with horses, he was born an ass. Lydia's just so perfect, what does she even see in him?"_ ). Scott plays along with the evidence of old habit; affirmations (" _yeah_!"), incredulity (" _how does your body even bend that... no. No, that's not anatomically possible. Except maybe for Erica."_ ), denials (" _No. They're mine. NO, stop asking!"_ ), and discussion (" _he's a snake. A snake who is also a horse's ass._ ").

Derek wanders along without saying anything, content to be in their company. Stiles had eyeballed him assessingly as they got out of the water, his face mobile with unspoken questions, but he seems to be content for the moment not to pry. They remind him of his sisters, the way they seem to tune out everything around them. They're overly tactile, too, like the girls; always with their hands on each other to shove and grasp and hang on. Stilinski seems to be that way with everyone, though; Derek thinks he's been touched more by the kid in the last five hours than he has by anyone in the five months beforehand.

They can smell the camp before they see it- Derek's not sure who's on kitchen duty tonight, but the smell of roasting meat makes his mouth water as it rises on the thin ribbon of smoke before them. Scott and Stilinski break out into a run, whooping and still managing to push at each other as they pelt for the edge. Derek continues at his same pace, too relaxed to want to rush, even for the food that's making his stomach grumble.

He steps into the main open area at the center of camp not more than a minute or two behind his companions, but they're frozen tensely on the edge of a small circled audience, breath held. He sidles in as unobtrusively as possible, catching Stilinski's eye and raising a questioning eyebrow. The kid jerks his head hard in a _not now_ motion, and tips it toward the people in the center of the tables.

"It's not _right_!" Lydia's got her fingers sunk into Erica's arm, the blonde girl pulling back and away from Lydia's grasp. Lydia herself is leaning forward, her small stature doing nothing at all to disguise the threat in her body language as she leans into Deaton's space.

"Lydia." Deaton's voice is calm, but edged with anger. "Do I _look_ like someone who is happy with the status quo?" He gestures to himself, and it takes Derek a minute to figure out that he's indicating his own brown skin.

" _So why do you insist that we tolerate it_?" The feathers on her hat are quaking, her eyes wide. Erica gives a determined twist of her forearm, yanking herself free of Lydia and stalking off out of the circle, her body furious, but her eyes red. The sound of a slamming door echoes a moment later.

"Lydia, be reasonable." Deaton's hands make a placating gesture, but his voice is unbending. "You know this business as well as I do. We need these people, we need every single one of them. We need them, and their brothers and parents and children. And not only do we need them and their money, but we need their support."

"Their _support_." Lydia hisses the word, her eyes snapping.

"Yes, Lydia, their support. For every closed-minded bumpkin who is only truly comfortable with Boyd in the ring as a dancing pet, there is a Hunter zealot who would see us all hanged. And when they come for us, and make no mistake, Lydia, they _will_ , we will need every last one of those bumpkins to defend us as _their_ freaks, as _their_ own little sideshow. We can't afford to alienate them, Lydia, you know this, so pull yourself together and _play your part_."

Lydia is deep breathing, her stays creaking with the effort of containing her anger.

"Play your part." Her tone is mocking, and she draws herself back out of his space. "You'd know something about that, wouldn't you, Deaton. Always playing a part." She rakes her eyes over him contemptuously, then turns and stalks out of the center, Jackson slinking behind her as always. Deaton remains standing, looking first angry, then sad, then rubbing his face with his hand and slumping. The gathered crowd lets out a collective breath, and begins to disperse, chattering to each other in low voices as they go.

Derek turns to Scott and Stilinski as they begin to shuffle in their spots near him. He raises his eyebrow again.

"That..." Scott begins, then sighs and shakes his head. "Yeah. Well. We've had the annual face-off now, I guess we can get on with everything else." He shudders, cracks his neck.

"Annual face-off?"

Stilinski rolls his eyes and makes an elaborate hand gesture that takes in Deaton and flails on to indicate the direction in which first Erica, and then Lydia, stalked off.

"The thing is, Lydia and Erica they... they both feel very strongly about How Things Should Be. And they forget... when we spend all our time on the road, it's just us, right? Just our families, just our people, and we don't care about a lot of things, you know." He looks at Derek for a minute. "You know." It's a statement, not a question, but Derek nods anyway. He does know- circus folk have their own rules, their own ways of being. They're far more concerned with skill, loyalty, and work ethic than with sex or race, always have been; it's part of what makes the Hunters hate them so. Stiles examines him for a second, brown eyes piercing, before he continues. "They forget that not everyone thinks it's ok for Erica to waltz into town on Boyd's arm, and they also forget that no one cares for their opinion." Stiles ducks his head, rubs his fingers into his short-cropped hair. "It's hard. None of us like it. But...that's how it goes."

Derek nods again, considering. He'd noticed Boyd standing silently to the side, but when he looks now he's disappeared. Stilinski gives a shuddering sigh, and elbows Scott in the side.

"Hey. Food." He looks up again at Derek, biting slightly on his lower lip. "Coming?"

\--

The grand re-opening is a huge success, crowds coming from as far as San Francisco to welcome the circus back to town for the winter. Derek takes tickets and fetches water and checks props and sweeps up popcorn and is mostly far too busy for the nostalgia to hit him. It takes its toll later, when he's alone in his little cabin, and at night in his dreams. He wasn't there when they burned, and he'll never know if that's worse or better, if the smells and screams his brain summons up from the newspaper articles are more or less accurate, if it would have been better for him to have burned, too. He used to think there was no question; he should have died with them instead of being left alone like this, but it's been enough years now that he thinks maybe he's glad there's someone left, even if he still wishes it weren't him. _What is remembered, lives_ , the old fortune-teller used to whisper, slipping the monochrome images of her girlhood country back under her blouse, _what is remembered, lives_ , and he will never forget them.

They're doing five shows a week through November- Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, with two weekend matinees for the kids. It'll pick up to seven come December, and he's already seen Boyd, Danny, and Isaac working on Christmas themed decorations in their off time. Before and after the shows his job is to clean and set up, and to help cart around anything that any of the performers may need. Often as not, they don't need much from him- Deaton's is a well-tuned machine, and none of the performers are new. They've been doing this for years without him, and though he feels welcome enough, he's under no illusions as to his indispensability.

On the off days, he helps with maintenance and basic tasks- there are always repairs to be made, and equipment to be oiled or tightened or inspected. He spends a lot of time in the tents themselves, methodically checking and re-checking the tent pegs, the ropes, the joints of the stands. Sometimes he gets distracted watching the rehearsals. When he was a kid, he was always busy with his own warm-ups and routines and practices- trying new moves with his siblings, working out refinements to their routines, watching their parents run through their own acts. Now... he's just a roughneck, which leaves him time to watch.

His sister Laura had always loved the animals- she'd've liked to watch Scott as he coaxed the big cats through their litany of tricks, prancing, leaping, showing their teeth. She'd always been completely fearless around the larger beasts, predators or not, and they always treated her as an equal. She'd like Lydia's act too, he thinks, with the fast gallops and the ridiculous costumes and the death-defying flips from one horse to another. She'd probably feel the need to show her up, though, Derek thinks in amusement- Laura's ego always did need to be the biggest in the room.

His little brother would have loved Boyd, with his striped costume and his giant dumbbells. He's a perfectionist, Derek's learned, practicing his lifts over and over and over until they're completely flawless, graceful and nearly delicate in their execution. Isaac had told him once when he'd caught Derek watching that Boyd had had to start building in an audience participation bit to his routine where he would ask audience members to come lift his weights. Apparently he'd been making it look so easy that he was accused of fraud. His brothers would have loved Isaac, too, with his slapstick routine of subtly skilled juggling and tumbling and magic tricks- he is clearly a children's favorite, his grease paint widening his eyes and turning his mouth slightly down at the corners. You never knew when or where he will pop up, silk flower bouquet in hand.

Cora, though- Cora would have loved the Stupendous Stilinski. Derek can see him now across the ring, chalking his hands and talking to Erica as she stands beside him. He's been working with her on adding a new part to her routine, some simple work on a suspended hoop, and Derek sweeps his way slowly back and forth across the open space toward them. Cora had always wanted to be a flier, no matter that none of their family had been aerialists. The Hale Pack were strictly acrobats, and strictly group work- only their father ever worked alone, and that was only in his role as the circus' Wolfman. They'd had aerialists, of course- a duo called the Morrells, Deaton's sisters, and the reason that Deaton and his parents had been friends. They'd even offered to train Cora, but Father had wanted her to be a bit older first, and of course now, she never will be.

He thinks she would have been good; he can imagine her doing what Erica is doing now- bending her body around a hoop, flipping herself up into a hold, arching her spine backward into the elegant curve. She'd have been a natural, her acrobatic strength and her lithe figure combining to give her a sense of artistry some of the rest of them had lacked.

Erica's still rough- she's got the strength and flexibility from her own contortionism, no question. But there's a balance she lacks when working with an object, especially an object in motion, even the small amount of motion generated by a hoop. She's not used to the physics of it yet, and so Stiles demonstrates the move for her again, the hoop remaining almost perfectly still as he pulls himself up and wraps his legs around it, hanging upside down at first, then putting up a hand to suspend himself by a hand and a knee, his toes pointed and head thrown back. She tries it again, still overcompensating, but closer, and then they're done, Stiles clapping her cheerfully on the back and gesturing excitedly as he talks about her improvement. She dusts her hands off on her tights, squeezes Stiles quickly around the neck, then slips out of the tent.

"Wanna go?"

It takes a second for Derek to realize that Stiles is talking to him, but he is, smiling broadly with his eyes all squinched up and his hand gesturing to the hoop.

"No, no thanks." He shakes his head. He would, actually, kind of like to try it, in an abstract way- he's curious sometimes how thoroughly his skills have atrophied, and whether he ever would have been good for anything but tumbling- but the ache of ever performing without his family is still too present for him to reach out and take the offer. "Best leave that to the professionals."

Stiles gives him another one of those searching looks, then shrugs unconcernedly and walks back to the hoop. He releases it from its supporting cord and hangs it on the equipment stand. He pulls aside a rope, letting it swing out freely from the ceiling, and Derek gives up any pretense of sweeping to just watch. He's seen Stiles practicing this, but not often- he doesn't like to do it in front of people yet, Derek thinks, he's obviously still learning, and Derek feels a sudden warmth at the thought that Stiles is clearly unconcerned with him watching.

The rope is not terribly thick; easily grasped in a fist, and made of cotton and hemp. It's nearly 20 feet in length, hanging from the same overhead framework that holds up the trapeze rigging. Stiles starts off near the ground, hanging from one arm and splitting his legs so that he swings in a lazy splay-legged circle only a few inches from the mats. He lets himself spin for a moment, then swiftly pulls himself into an inversion, twisting the rope around an ankle and a knee to allow himself to hang suspended upside down with no hands. He holds it, then, wrapping an arm around behind his knee, releases into a modified swan dive, belly to the ground and free leg pointing earthward.

"Point your toes."

Stiles startles, and the rope jerks, then spins slowly as he turns his head to look at Derek. Derek would like to eat his own tongue.

"Yeah?" Stiles grins quick and sharp, his feet now appropriately pointed in line with his legs. "Anything else, peanut gallery?"

Hanged for a sheep as well as a lamb, Derek thinks. "Yeah. You need to do something with your free arm there. Your arch is" _amazing, flawless, perfect_ "good, but with your top arm and both your legs engaged, you're just letting your other arm hang." He shrugs, moves his broom. "Breaks the line."

He can see the thoughts flitting across Stile's mobile face. "Ok. Yeah." He grimaces "What do you suggest?"

Derek thinks for a moment. "Do it again?"

Stiles drops unceremoniously to the floor, shaking himself loose. Derek can see the tension across his shoulders from the rope work. Trapeze is a demanding skill, no question, but this uses different motions, has different sustained notes. For all that Stiles has the strength and balance to execute the moves, he's not yet fully grown into an adult body, and he has to work hard to move through the elements smoothly. He pushes through the forms again, faster this time, ending in the same inverted arc as before.

"Where is this in the routine?"

"Well, it's not really a routine yet, you know, I'm just..." Stiles trails off, his eyes jumping around "Trapeze is what the people come to see, I just...get bored."

Derek waits.

"It's near the beginning." Stiles drops his head, his cheeks faintly pink with embarrassment. Derek's not entirely sure why he doesn't want to talk about this; it seems to him that if you've only got one aerialist, he may as well do as many different things as he can, but it's clearly a sore point, so he lets it slide, steps forward.

"Like this." He takes Stiles' free arm in his, pulls it out in front of his body. "No, elbow straight, palm up." He demonstrates with his own. "Welcome the audience in." Stiles releases the tension for a minute, the pulls into the form again, using the momentum of his back leg dropping to circle his arm up and out, palm facing up, long, callused fingers reaching.

"Yes." Derek coughs and ducks his head. It's absolutely perfect. "Like that."

\--

He first sees her from a distance- she's walking with Lydia and Erica, arms linked with theirs. The new girl is taller than either of them, but they make a pretty picture in the afternoon sun: Erica's fair hair and Lydia's copper tones to her neatly arranged dark braids. He figures she's a family member, or maybe the rare townie friend, and doesn't think much of it, turning back to the rope he's using to adjust the hang of the gate on the horse pen.

He sees her again a couple of days later, but this time she's in breeches under the big top, aiming what looks very much like a loaded crossbow at Lydia where she stands spread-eagled before a backing board. He starts to run toward them, but before he can even take a step, the new girl has fired, a quivering arrow splitting the apple that he hadn't seen perched on Lydia's head. Lydia is laughing, throwing her slender arms around the other girl's shoulders as she ducks out from under the gored apple, bits of apple flesh sticking to her hair. The new girl is laughing too, delighted and proud. Derek has to stand still for a moment and remember how to breathe. The adrenaline kick is washing through his system and making him a little weak-kneed, so he wanders back out of the tent into the late fall sunshine to talk his body back down.

It's nearly lunchtime, so he makes his way over to the picnic tables by the mess hall and takes his now customary seat at the end of the furthermost bench. It's still warm enough to eat outside, as long as you're in the sun, so he closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing slowly and steadily, on feeling the heat of the sun soak into the top of his head and his shoulders. He'd had to do a lot of this sort of deep breathing stuff right after the fire; he'd learned it from the gently stern Quaker man who'd taken Laura and him in while they got their feet back under them right after everything had gone so wrong. Deep, slow breaths, starting at the stomach and expanding, then exhaled with control.

He feels the thump of a body next to him, and the customary shuffling that says it must be Stiles. Boyd sits with him sometimes, and occasionally Erica and Isaac; Scott is wary of him for no good reason- Derek thinks that he may just be one of the territorial people, what's his is his, and he doesn't trust newcomers. Stilinski Senior has joined him once or twice, and they've had some nice, forgettable chats about weather and equipment maintenance and time of year.

Stiles is fidgeting less than usual. He must be tired; Derek saw him this morning in the tent working on something new with the rope, his face scrunched up in concentration and displeasure. It hadn't looked like it was going well, but Stiles also didn't look anywhere near close to giving up, so Derek had left him alone. He remembers what it's like to throw your mind at your body until one of them finally caves. He shouldn't be surprised, really, at the level of dedication Stiles shows- he's one of the country's top aerialists, in spite of his being alone and young- but somehow it's hard for Derek to reconcile the happy-go-lucky kid outside of the tent with the driven artist within. He's complex, is Stiles, in a way most 17 year olds are not, at least in Derek's experience.

"So. New girl?" Derek opens his eyes to watch Stiles give an exasperated sigh.

"Yep. Scott's head over heels for her."

Derek chuckles, then looks around. Sure enough, the lunch line is forming, and there she is, looking pretty and shy in a dress again, dark hair curling around her ears. Scott looks like a fool standing behind her, all big eyes and earnestly crooked grin.

"No kidding."

"Yeah. I hear her name is Allison." Stiles rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "I also hear that she's pretty, and her hair smells good, and she's from town, and she's tall, and that she likes the color green, and that she's just so incredible." Stiles voice is airy and breathless in a mocking imitation of a mooning Scott, and Derek looks at his hands to keep from laughing outright.

"Well, to be fair, she knows her way around a crossbow." He grimaces. "Nearly gave me a heart attack a few minutes ago. Walked in on her pointing one at Lydia in the big tent, and didn't figure out it was the apple on Lydia's head she was shooting at until after the fact."

"Oh yeah?" Stiles eyes him appraisingly. "That why you were over here doing all the deep breathing?"

Derek looks at him in surprise, but nods. "Something I learned a few years ago. Helps calm me down."

"Yeah." Stiles nods knowingly. "Yeah, I spent a lot of time doing that after my mom died. It seems like the stupidest thing, but it does work."

Derek nods again, searching out Allison in line. She's smiling broadly at something Scott is saying, hands folded in the front of her dress as her dimples flash at him.

"So is she going to be a new act?"

Stiles hums, thinking. "I'm not sure. I assume so, but there's no official word that I know of. We weren't really looking for new performers, but if she's as good as you say, well...we don't have anyone who does those sorts of tricks, so, I don't know why Deaton wouldn't want her, if she's willing." He pauses, thinks a minute. "Scott says she's a townie, but a new one- just moved here with her parents and an aunt and... not an uncle, maybe a grandfather? From back east. Guess they're gonna settle down. But she wants to join up, wants at least a trial run."

Derek nods, rubbing a thumb against the wood of the table. It's unusual to get townies who want to join up, and when they do, it often doesn't end well- the culture shock is too much for them, or they tire of the travel, or they can't handle the sort of uprooted life that circus folks thrive on.

"My condolences on Scott."

Stiles blinks in surprise, then laughs, claps him on the shoulder.

"Yeah, thanks man. He may be lost to me, it's true." They share a look at where Scott is clearly pantomiming some of the tricks he does with the lions to a quietly enraptured Alison. It seems to involve a lot of grandiose hand-gesturing, and a few facial expressions. "Well. He's dead to me." Stiles sighs elaborately and flaps a hand. "Guess you'll just have to be my new best friend!"

It's a joke, Derek knows, but even as he pulls himself up off the bench to follow Stiles into the end of the lunch line, it settles into him, making a place in between his shoulders and warming all the way up.

Friend. Huh.

\--

He can see the glow of the lamp through the curtains on the little house, so he knocks at the door and waits. There's no response, but when he leans in he can hear Stiles muttering to himself, so he knocks again. No answer is forthcoming. He opens the door slowly inward, thudding his boots at the base of the door frame to knock the mud off. He pokes his head into the front room, cupping a hand to his mouth to carry his voice.

"Stiles?"

There's a sudden flurry of motion to his left, and an abrupt crash followed by a mumbled curse. Derek steps in and shuts the door, turning to see a flailing pile of limbs on the wooden floor and an overturned ink pot dripping steadily onto the floor.

"Don't you know how to _knock_?" The voice is exasperated, but with a tendril of surprise Derek realizes that he knows Stiles well enough to recognize that it's not serious.

"I did." He leans over and offers a hand to the gesticulating boy on the floor. "Twice.”

Stiles pulls himself up, bouncing on his toes when he hits his feet. There's a splatter of ink across the bridge of his nose, and Derek touches his thumb to the tip of his tongue and wipes it away without thinking. Stiles' skin is warm under his touch, and his eyes blink roundly back at Derek as his mouth hovers between open and closed.

"Oh."

Derek rolls his eyes, righting the inkwell and pulling out his handkerchief to mop up the spill while Stiles shuffles the avalanche of papers into a pile. "Yes, _oh_." He shoves his handkerchief back into his pocket and leans in as Stiles settles himself back into the wooden chair in front of the low desk. The pile of papers is large, and spreads across the whole surface in front of him, but Derek can see that there's a method to the madness. He resists the urge to reach out and rifle through them, shoves his thumbs into his belt loops instead.

"What are you doing?"

"Hmm?" Stiles blinks up at him, clearly halfway to forgetting he was even here. There's a smudge of ink in front of his ear where he's rubbed at it. Derek smiles. "I got a new letter today, from Elise, one of the fliers with the _Cirque du Paris_. I was re-reading, making some notes, then I need to write her back."

Stiles flips through the papers in front of him, coming up with several hand-written pages that he waves in front of Derek's face absently until he takes them from Stiles' hand. They're written in French, delicate script front and back, with exquisite drawings of bodies in motion combined with what looks like extremely technical instructions.

"You read French?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, my mom...she lived in France for a while before she came here, worked with Elise and her sister in Paris." Stiles gestures at the wall of papers and flyers pinned above the desk, his fingers settling first on one image, then a second.

Derek leans in. The first image must have been taken at least twenty years ago, maybe more like twenty five, judging by the costumes. Three women stand smiling with their arms around each other, wearing shoes and leotards and feathers in their hair. The two on either side are clearly sisters, and each is holding a trapeze in her outer hand. The woman in the middle can be no one other than Stiles' mom- she's dark like he is, with the same glinting eyes and daredevil smile.

The second image is a painting of the same woman, but this time frozen in mid-air as she leaps from one trapeze to another. Her expression is the same wide-open grin he knows from Stiles' own face, and the scrolling banner beneath proclaims her to be "The Captivating Claudia!" with a small 1870 written into the corner. Just a year or two before Stiles was born, then, Derek thinks. Small wonder Stilinski Sr fell in love with her.

Derek reaches unconsciously to straighten the picture on the wall. "What happened?"

Stiles tenses, then intentionally releases, and Derek wants to put a hand on his shoulder, take his words back.

"She fell." He shrugs. "Hit the net wrong, broke her neck." He shrugs again, and this time Derek does lay a hand on the edge of his collar, just letting it rest, thumb on the knob of bone at the top of Stiles' spine. "Random accident, you know? Can happen to any of us."

He's not wrong, and Derek knows it- generally the risks for acrobats were more along the lines of broken bones than death, but plenty of performers take their lives in their hands every day. A slip from a horse, an upset lion, a mis-tied net, and it could happen to any of them.

Stiles is already lost in the diagrams in front of him, muttering under his breath as he pores over the new schematics. Derek can see postmarks from a dozen different locations in the piles around the desk, edges of other drawings poking out from under letters in a dozen different hands. Stiles must be in communication with every single aerialist in the country, and several more abroad.

"What, are you trying to single handedly bring back the Pony Express?" Derek picks up another envelope, turning it over in his hands to read the address. New York, upstate.

"Ha ha." Stiles rolls his eyes, scrubs a hand through his hair. "No, I mean...a lot of these people were my mother's friends, and at first it was just polite, you know, let them know why she wasn't answering her mail, that sort of thing." He's scribbling furiously in a string bound journal as he speaks, sketching in approximate poses and some form of shorthand that Derek's willing to bet only Stiles can translate. "But then...I'm all I've got, here, professionally, I mean. When I got back up there, I didn't have anyone to help me anymore, to tell me what I was doing right or wrong, to give me new ideas, any of that. And that's important, you know? I'm good, I know I'm good, but I want to be the best, I don't want to be just some charity case Deaton keeps on, I don't want to give up and do the same show I've always done, I want to be a main attraction."

He stops, takes a breath. His ears are pink, and Derek can tell he's embarrassed, so he takes a step back, fishing in his coat pocket.

"Here." He holds it out, flat across his hand. "You loaned me your pen last week? I'm going into town tomorrow to buy my own, so I came to give it back. Thanks."

"Oh. Yeah." Stiles blinks slowly at him, his hand hesitating for just a moment as he plucks the pen off Derek's palm, his fingers warm and callused as they pause. "You're welcome."

–

One of the painted partitions of the largest ring had been clipped by a horse's hoof in the Saturday matinee, and cracked right through its lurid yellow star. He's hauled it out behind the barn to see if it can be fixed with a simple brace, or if he really needs to just make a whole new one, when he sees her down at the end of the field, shooting arrow after arrow into a straw bale set against a tree. She's just as exceptional shooting over a distance as she is short-range, and Derek watches her for several minutes before he goes to fetch the paint and hardware he needs for a potential repair.

He brings the supplies out, blue and red and yellow paints in their jugs, a smallish iron brace and screws, and sets them on the workbench that's built off the back wall of the barn. He picks up the section, turning it over in his hands, examining the break. It's one of the small-sized sections, maybe two feet square and painted red all around the star in the middle. The wood is light-weight and porous, meant to be decorative rather than functional. It'd be just as easy to make a new one, really.

“Hey, Allison!”

She watches him curiously as he crunches through the dry grass over to her, lowering the bow and waiting till he's close to nod a greeting.

“Derek?”

“Yeah, Derek. Hi.” They look nothing alike, but she's right about the age his little sister would be now, and he shuffles his feet awkwardly before leaning the partition against his legs to show it to her. “This got broken. I'm just going to make a new one,” he gestures back at the barn, “But I thought maybe you'd like something a little better than a hay bale to aim at.”

Her glance flickers down to the partition, dark eyes taking in the still-damp blue circle he's painted into the middle of the star. She smiles slowly, the expression climbing gradually over her face as she starts to nod.

He picks it up and strides off down the field, laying it down when he gets to the tree. There are seven arrows stuck into the bale in about a two inch radius. He pulls them out and sets them aside, turning the bale onto its end, and setting the wooden partition on top of it. He angles it a little, steps back, adjusts it again, then turns to look questioningly at Allison across the field. She raises her bow and pulls the string, squinting as she adjusts her aim, then lowers it and grins, nodding vigorously.

She waits till he's back at her side to fire off an arrow, both of them watching as it arcs through the sky and plants itself solidly smack in the middle of the blue dot. Derek smiles, satisfied, and hands her the arrows he's collected from the bale.

“How did you learn to shoot?”

She lines up another shot, closes her eyes, and lets it fly.

“My father was a trick shooter back east; he was in the War as a teenager, learned to sharp-shoot.” She points the bow at the sky, shoots an arrow, waits. It lands immediately above the previous one, pointing down at a perfect angle. “I wanted to learn, but he wasn't about to give a little girl a gun. But...” She smiles wickedly, “I was his only child, and he spoiled me. So, I learned this instead.”

Derek nods, thinking of his own childhood, the way they all nagged to be allowed to do whatever each other were doing. He can picture a little Allison, dark pigtails and long white dress, wheedling until her father gave in.

She bends over, shoots the third arrow upside down. It hits, but slightly out from the others, making her frown delicately and bite her lip.

Derek sticks his hands into his pockets and ambles back up to the barn, leaving her to it. They've both got work to do.

\--

He's in town to do a pick-up of supplies at the General Store, that's it, but he's coming out of the store when he hears the raised voices.

"Well, boys, what do we have here?" The voice is snide and high, a complete mismatch for the hefty middle-aged man standing by the wagon. "Looks like we might have found us one of them circus folk from out of town." Derek can see that Isaac's grip on the reins has tightened, and he's sitting very still in the seat. Derek's arms are full of a 50lb bag of flour and the two bolts of cloth Mrs. McCall had asked him to get for her, and he hesitates in the shade of the store's awning to assess the situation.

"Why, I think we've caught the clown!" The second man is younger, but also looks drunker, if his flushed face is any indication. He sounds delighted, but the hair on Derek's arms stands up at the look on his face. "Come on, clown, make us laugh!"

Isaac's face is pale, but he smiles broadly and nods obligingly. "Well, have you heard the one about the difference between the circus and a brothel?"

"I don't want to hear no fucking _jokes_ , clown." The second man leans over to grip the reins, jerking them and making the horses jump. "I said make me laugh."

Derek steps forward from under the shadow of the General Store. There's one more man leaning against the tailgate of the wagon, so Derek walks forward and drops his goods over the side. He smiles, baring all his teeth, and braces his fists on his hips, standing up straight. Isaac looks pathetically relieved, but they're not anywhere close to in the clear yet. Derek just wants to get out of this without a fight.

"Gentlemen." He nods tightly, teeth clenched in his jaw. "Do we have a problem?"

The older man looks him over, looks back at Isaac, and steps forward, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops and leading with his stomach.

"Yeah. We do. This here clown ain't very funny." He makes a faux moue of disappointment. "We just wanted to laugh a little bit, but he just sits here looking forlorn and stinking of fright." The man corners the wagon, making his way toward Derek and slapping Isaac hard on the thigh as he goes. "Maybe you can get him to give us a little show. I heard that's what all you circus folk are good for," he sneers, "a quick little show."

It's just like back east all over again, and Derek pushes down the twisting of his stomach at the _déjà vu_ and stands his ground. There's a shadow at his shoulder, and he turns his head just enough to see Danny standing next to him, his arms still laden with the rest of their order- barley, oats, and two bags of sugar.

"Well, you see" says Derek, as Danny elbows none so gently past the third man to put his goods in the wagon, "normally we get paid. Now, I know you are men of business, so I'm sure you all will understand that we can't just go handing out our goods for free." He smiles again, and folds his arms. He can see the circus' two other roughnecks coming down the street. He doesn't know the twins that well, since they tend to keep to themselves, but they're neither one of them small, and he can't imagine either one of them backing down when confronted.

The third man saunters around Danny then to stand in front of them, scrabbling in his pocket. "You want paid for your tricks, bitch?" He flips a coin onto the street, "here's your fucking payment." He spits on the coin, splattering onto the toe of Derek's boot. "You folk are a goddamn blight on our city. You let coloreds live with white women, you tolerate queers, you let your women go around half naked." He tightens his hands into fists. Derek can see Ethan and Aiden nearly there, and shakes his head slightly. They can't afford a brawl, he knows it more than any of the rest of them. That's a one way street that ends badly only for them, and he won't go down it. He won't let anyone else go down it either.

Derek steps forward, positioning himself in front of the others, watching out of the corner of his eye as Ethan and Aiden silently menace the second man into releasing the reins, and climb into the wagon. Danny is still standing beside him, but Derek jerks his head for him to climb up.

"We don't want any trouble."

" _Trouble_." The first man again, his beady eyes boring into Derek's face. "You all are trouble no matter how you cut it, no matter what you do. You come into our town and dirty our good names, you bring your filth and your trash and you muck up our fair city. We oughta smoke you all out of that shanty town of yours, burn you out like the worthless rats you are."

Derek sees red, but he hears Isaac snapping the reins and the wheels of the wagon starting to move. He hopes a wheel rolls over one of the other men's toes. He's turning to climb up into the wagon when the third man pops him one, fist coming out of nowhere to connect with his eye socket. If Danny didn't have his arm, he would've gone down, but instead he rolls into the wagon bed as it jolts forward, taking a sack of sugar to the kidney.

"You best watch yourselves, you fucking _stripers_. We'll chase you out of here yet, you mark my words!" His shout disappears in the sound of wagon wheels and the jolting of the cart, and Isaac snaps at the horses as they bounce down the road and out of town.

\--

Derek winces as Mrs. McCall dabs at his eye with a cool cloth, and she slaps at his shoulder.

"Hold still! You've got yourself a shiner, young man." She presses a raw beefsteak against his face, setting a towel at his elbow for later, and leans him back against the picnic table. He can see Deaton and Stilinski Sr. approaching, Danny and Isaac right behind them. He resists the urge to groan. It's only been four weeks, and already he's getting in trouble.

Deaton comes to a stop in front of him, standing still with his arms folded, his face composed as always. Stilinski is rangier, some of the continual motion of his son clinging to him in the way he shifts his weight subtly from foot to foot as he stands behind Deaton's shoulder.

"Derek."

"I'm sorry, sir. I did my best to avoid it." Derek's proud that he keeps his voice even.

Deaton blinks in vague surprise, then his expression gentles slightly. "Of course you did, Derek. Danny and Isaac told us the whole story." Derek lets out a breath, more relieved than he should be. "Miller and his cronies are known to us from way back. They would've picked a fight with any of us."

"We're just grateful that all of you were there together. And that none of the ladies were with you." Stiles' father shifts his weight again. "It could have gone much worse, if you don't mind my saying." He gestures at Derek's face and smiles. "I daresay you've taken worse than that before."

Derek chuckles. "More than once, sir."

Stilinski grins and leans in to punch his shoulder lightly. "That's what I thought. Well done, son." He slings an arm around Deaton, pulling him away. "C'mon, Alan. Let's go discuss re-enforcing our perimeter. Melissa's got him all taken care of."

They stroll off toward Deaton's tent, Isaac and Danny trailing in their wake. Derek sighs, wishing he weren't stuck here with this hunk of meat pressed to his aching face. He hates sitting still, being useless. He's deliberate, but he's not made for killing time.

"You sit right here, hon. I'll be back in a minute with an aspirin, and then you can be up and about." Mrs. McCall smiles at him, and then he's alone, one-eyed, and bored.

"Hey." He startles. Stiles has come up on his blind side, and is shoving something into his hand. "I heard you were defending our honor today." Stiles' grin is wide, and the bottle of beer is cold. Derek takes the beefsteak down, and presses the bottle to the edge of his eye socket. "That's for your mouth, ninny." Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Take it how I can get it." It's the first time that day that Derek has smiled and meant it.

\--


	2. Chapter Two (Stiles has a Big Top adventure)

 He doesn't recognize the sound at first, a sort of rhythmic thumping on the hard-packed dirt. It's much too soft to be the horses, but it's too regular to be something banging in the wind. Thump, thump, thump, pause. Thumpity thump, thump, thump, pause. The thing with things that he doesn't recognize, though, or know, or understand, is that Stiles immediately wants to recognize or know or understand them, and they, the things, don't always want to be forthcoming. That is to say that Stiles has developed a certain amount of stealth, and has cultivated peeking around corners into a discreet art form, and so when he tip-toes to the end of the barn wall and peers low around the corner, it's not at all surprising that he goes un-noticed by the creator of the aforementioned thumps.

What is surprising, to Stiles anyway, is that the origin of the pounding noise is one relatively new-to-the-neighborhood roustabout, a certain Derek, who is now, in front Stiles' ever-widening eyes, performing an increasingly complex series of acrobatic flips.

Stiles had no idea Derek was an acrobat.

Stiles _really_ had no idea that Derek was an _exceptional_ acrobat.

Derek lines up at the far end of the dusty run, the concentration pulling his dark eyebrows down over his lightly tanned face. He's shirtless and sweating, and he looks frustrated in a way that Stiles recognizes, that means something about skills failing him, and lack of practice. Stiles remembers what it felt like to wear that look when he climbed back into the rigging after his mom...Derek lines up his run and with a light bounce of his toes, he's off, his solid frame slamming through a cartwheel, two flips, and an aerial round-off. His form is shaky at the end, it takes him a second of gripping at the dirt with his toes before his balance is set, but it doesn't fool Stiles for a second- this man knows what the hell he's doing.

Derek's moving a little slower as Stiles watches, pulling a sawhorse out from the edge of the barn, and Stiles pulls his lip between his teeth, chewing idly as he watches Derek set it, making sure each foot is solid on the ground. When he's satisfied that it's stable, he brushes his hands together, takes a furtive look around, and then goes to stand at the near end of it. His back is to Stiles, the sun catching the rivulets of sweat that coat his musculature, and there's no mistaking him for a simple roustabout now- he's strong, yes, as are the twins, but Derek has the definition and precise lines of a top performer, and Stiles wants to kick himself for missing it. He should have seen this, he should have noticed, he's known there was something different about his dark and silent neighbor, but he didn't ask, he didn't push. There was something unsettled about Derek, something hidden and touchy, and Stiles knows better than to stab a bruise, knows how to talk past the quiet ache that needs to be ignored.

But this...this is perfect. Derek leans forward, bracing his palms against the top of the horse, shifting his weight in a slow and excruciating rise onto his hands, one in front of the other on the horse, face tipped down to stare at the line of wood under his palms. His stomach quivers with the effort of holding his body straight up, but as Stiles watches, heart in his throat, Derek lets his legs fall slowly open, raising one hand off of the wood and into the air until his arm is perpendicular to his inverted body, all the weight of his body balanced on one hand that is clutching at the board. His chest is pushing hard, in and out, but he holds it, holds it, and finally, just as Stiles thinks he might explode with glee, Derek brings his second hand back to the beam, twists, and lands on his feet. He's breathing hard and shaking his head, starting to pull the horse back into the barn, reaching for his shirt left hanging on a stall door to wipe his face.

"You've been holding out on me."

Derek turns, startled, and Stiles isn't sure what he'd name the shudder of expressions across Derek's face; something that looks like embarrassment, a glimpse of distress, and a few others that move too quickly for Stiles to capture.

"I was just..." Derek gestures futilely at the barn, turning his head in hopes of identifying a chore he could use to explain what he was doing upside down doing tricks in the back run.

"...being incredible." Stiles gestures broadly at him, striding cautiously closer. "Why the hell didn't you tell us you could do that? I'm sure Deaton would have hired you as an act, if you wanted..." He squints at Derek, whose face is pale, and set. "Deaton knows, doesn't he?"

Derek hesitates, his face shuttering. It's as much confirmation as Stiles needs. Interesting. The plot thickens, the mystery deepens, Stiles thinks, and Derek here has more secrets than he lets on. He wants to push, but he wants Derek to like him more than he wants this information, and after all, he can find information in other ways. Stiles realizes he's paused for a minute, and that Derek is still watching him, so he pulls a smile onto his face and bounces on his toes.

"You're out of practice." Derek gives him the patented " _yes, you nitwit_ " look that Stiles has seen directed at the twins and Jackson several times now, and feels suddenly fond at the inclusion. "You're still strong, but your technique has dropped off, and you don't have the stamina."

Derek's still looking at him like he's slow, wiping his hands on his pants and shrugging back into his shirt. Stiles grins more widely.

"Meet me in the tent after Erica's done. We'll get you back into shape in no time!"

Derek pauses from where he's busied himself with nestling the sawhorse back under the eaves. He turns his head, the shadows of the barn hiding his expression.

"Why?"

Stiles lets his smile split his face.

"Because I need a catcher."

\--

Stiles is wiping down his face with a rag after his two hours with Erica when he sees Derek lurking in the edge of the tent entrance, and he's proud, he really is, that he manages to rub his face into the cloth again before he's beaming like a lunatic. He doesn't know why he's so excited, hasn't examined it too closely yet- maybe it's just the thrill of something, anything, anyone new in their little insular world, or maybe it's that he feels like he might maybe finally have found someone who is qualified to critique him, to help him, to make him better. Or maybe it's just that he likes Derek, in spite of his reserve, in spite of his loner tendencies. Derek seems already like he's been here for ages, and Stiles wants Derek to think so too, to feel liked, wanted, included, to lose that look on his face like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Stiles pulls the rag down from his face and eyeballs Derek. He's found or borrowed a pair of fitted leggings somewhere, and has stripped down to his undershirt, his feet bare as he approaches the edge of the ring. It's getting chillier and chillier in the big tent as the days wear on into winter, so they've mostly moved into the smaller tent next door. It has mats, and some of Stiles' equipment- a rope, a swing, and a hoop. He still goes into the big tent in the late afternoon, when the sun has warmed it up- there's no other way to practice his flying, the little tent is too small, and even though the tricks he's working on right now are on other apparatus, he's well aware that the flying is what keeps him employable.

Stiles is still warmed up from working with Erica, but he turns his back and runs through some quick stretches to keep himself limber, and to give Derek time to approach. He turns around when he can feel the hairs on his arms go up, and sure enough, Derek's two feet away now, shoulders hunched and face drawn in.

"I'm not a catcher."

His tone is flat, and his face makes it clear that he's ready to fight this every step of the way, so Stiles rolls his shoulders and shrugs nonchalantly.

"Ok."

Stiles turns around again, using a small pulley to raise the level of his hoop about a foot higher. There's a vaguely annoyed whuff of air from behind him, and he resolutely keeps his back turned as he smiles.

"What do you want me to do."

He gives Derek one more second to stew in his impatience, then slowly faces him, giving him an appraising look.

"What can you do?"

Stiles folds his arms across his chest, watching, but Derek just shuffles, looking more and more closed off. Stiles has to resist the urge to frown in response to the expression souring Derek's face. 

"I...I'm not sure." Derek makes some abortive gesture with his hands, the motion sharp and frustrated. "When you saw me by the barn earlier... I just..." He huffs again, folds his arms, and starts to turn away, his foot stepping toward the tent flap.

"Hey, hey wait!" Stiles grabs his arm, momentarily surprised at the warmth of it under his palm. "Just...how can I help? Tell me what you need." He pours all of the charm and openness he can manage into his face, willing himself to look guileless and entreating. Derek shuffles, but at least he's not moving away anymore. He darts furtive glances at Stiles' face for a moment, before dropping his arms to his sides and hanging his head. 

"I never did this alone. Our acts were always...ours. Never solos. At least two people, usually more." He turns his face away, tucks his hands into fists. "All my moves are designed to be done with a partner, or partners. It's hard to do them alone. I don't like it."

Stiles nods slowly, leaving his hand where it is on Derek's biceps. Derek hasn't seemed to notice it yet, and the warmth Stiles is feeling through his palm is grounding him, keeping him from bouncing around the ring in excitement. 

"Ok. Well." He pauses, pretends to consider it. "I'm not an acrobat, but I could try a few things with you. You need to start slow anyway, to get back into shape." He nods decisively, meeting Derek's wary eyes. Discretion is going to be the better part of valor, he can tell. Derek's wound tight, and any wrong move on Stiles' part is going to sink this ship before it even sails, so he turns his back and pulls down his rope. 

"Go ahead and warm up, get loose. I've got some more work to do anyway." He glances over his shoulder at Derek, backlit in the afternoon sun. "Just say the word when you're ready."

\--

He's lost in his concentration, nothing in the whole world but his callused hands, his aching muscles, and the accursed rope which refuses to cooperate with him at every turn. Someone must not have warned it, he thinks, because otherwise it would know that it's fighting a losing battle- nothing stands in the way of Stiles Stilinski for long. There can only be one winner here, and even if he has to admit defeat today, in this particular battle, he will win this war, make no mistake about it.

He's hanging upside down, and at first he doesn't register the sound in his ear, too preoccupied with checking in on all of the angles of his body where it's intersecting with the rope, holding its pose. Back arched, check; feet pointed and arcing back over his head, check. The rope is running up under his right arm and across the curve of his back to rise between his splayed and stretching legs. His left arm is reached back between his knees, clutching at the upper length of the rope to hold him in place as he lets his spine lengthen so that the soles of his feet curl down to face the floor. He calls to mind the diagram Elise had drawn him in her latest letter, the quick sketch of her sister Emilie in motion- he thinks he's got it, but it's so hard to tell, without being able to see himself, to see someone else, to be seen by someone. He thinks sometimes that's what he misses most about his mother being gone, more than the hugs, the family laughter, the looks she shared with his father when they thought he wasn't paying attention- he misses being seen, he misses someone not only paying attention, but seeing when he does something right, when he does something wrong, correcting him with a gentle hand, or praising him with a well-chosen word. 

He bites his lip, considers his pose. According to Elise, from this position, he should be able to release his upper hand, allowing his body to swing down and around and up in a pendulous motion while he grabs for the rope again to pull himself to the apex of the swing, ending up upside down again, but with the rope running along his front, rather than his back. He can do it, it's not actually that complex of a move, but he can't do it gracefully yet, can't make it flow into itself, and certainly can't make it flow into or from anything else.

He hears the noise again, insistent, and it's irritating in his ear as he starts to let go of the rope to swing down, the blood rushing in his head, and then it comes again, " _Stiles"_ in his ear, and he's slipping, his grip on the rope sliding as his legs drop too fast, and then instead of the floor catching him it's a pair of arms lowering him to the ground, and he's standing and blinking at Derek, who's biting his lip apologetically.

"Sorry." Derek hangs his head, crossing his arms and managing somehow to look both hangdog and aggressively defensive in the same moment. "I thought you heard me."

Stiles shakes his head ruefully, rubbing a hand over the back of his head, trying to shake the feel of solid muscle against his skin instead of unforgiving mats.

"No way, my fault. I wasn't paying attention, I get..." He waves a hand, figures Derek's been around long enough that he's picked up on Stiles' alternating states of intense focus and complete scatterbrain. "I'm not used to having someone else around," he finishes lamely, feeling unaccountably discomfited, searching Derek's face for some clue of how to play this out.

Derek regards him steadily for a moment, considering something, though Stiles hasn't got a clue what- Derek's face is impenetrable at best, he's only readable when he's surprised or convinced no one's looking, and right now he's staring straight at Stiles, like he's bent on reading the secrets of the universe in the freckles on Stiles face.

"I'm warmed up now." 

"Great!" Stiles can feel himself starting to grin like a loon, but thinks he can pass it off as natural enthusiasm. No one else second guesses his highs and lows too much, why would Derek? "So! What do you want me to do?" He re-chalks his hands quickly, spreads his arms wide. "Stiles Stilinski, at your service!" He bows deeply from the waist, flourishing his outstretched hand.

Derek's mouth quirks at the corner, and Stiles is definitely going to consider that a victory, no question. Derek bends his right knee into a high lunge and holds out his hands to Stiles, his face curious.

"You can do a handstand?"

Stiles snorts. "Of course."

"On a bar?"

"Uh, yes."

"Great." Derek grins this time, showing all his teeth, and something deep in Stiles shivers. He pushes it down, steps into Derek's space and takes his forward hand, face questioning.

"We're going to start with you on my shoulders. Put your right foot here," he pats his upper thigh, "and then swing your left foot around behind my head and step up so that you're standing facing forward." The look he levels at Stiles is full of implicit challenge, and Stiles' grin widens, gleeful in the face of something new that he can push on, through, toward. He adjusts his grip on Derek's hands, sets his foot and pushes, and then he's there on Derek's shoulders, the sensation different than standing on a bar or a beam because he can feel the heat and balanced strength of the muscles under his arches. He's still holding onto Derek's hands, leaning forward just slightly to grip them as Derek straightens up. He starts to let go, to stand up straight, but Derek's fingers close over his own, holding him in place.

"Now. We're going to try this, and...we'll just see where it goes." Derek pauses, and Stiles waits for him to finish the thought, caught up in the feel of Derek's fingers settling unconsciously, finding the perfect grip on his own. "You're strong, and you've got good balance, but working on a person is different, so."

"So?" Stiles shifts his weight again, feeling the delicate motions of Derek's solid bulk beneath him. 

"So" Derek's smiling again, Stiles can hear it "stand on your hands."

"Stand on my..." He's halfway into the thought when he gets it, feeling a little like a dunce, but he can't help it, they've never had acrobats at Deaton's, so he's never seen their tricks in person, only seen pictures and posters of what they can do. He braces himself for the jump up to vertical, feels Derek tense beneath him.

" _Slowly_. Push your weight onto me first, then raise your legs. Make it a controlled motion."

Stiles nods distractedly, already levering his weight forward and out, bringing himself into a suspended sitting position balanced on Derek's hands above his head. It's different from what he's used to, and he takes a second to really feel it, to try and get a grasp on the sensations and how they will play into his next moves. He's used to compensating for the physical effects of his own motion; his movements on the rope or the hoop or the bar all affect the motion of that object, and figuring out how to work _with_ that, rather than against it, is just part of the skill- but compensating for something that's compensating for him is different- every motion he makes, no matter how small, he can feel in reverse as Derek makes minute adjustments, keeping his stance as stable as possible. 

He raises himself slowly, the effort of it concentrated in his core as he kicks his legs back and up and over his head, feeling the moment when he comes into straight alignment and gripping it, holding it. Derek's hands are steady beneath him, holding Stiles aloft seemingly effortlessly. 

"Hey! Hey, we did it!" Stiles wants to wiggle with glee, but resists, hears Derek chuckle beneath him. He thinks back to the posters he's seen, mind racing through images until he comes to the right one, cements it in his mind. He drops his left leg to the side, feeling it move into balance position, and releases his right hand from Derek's, ignoring the noise of surprise below him and the way Derek's fingers catch at his own as he pulls away, bringing his arm up and out to the side. He gets it for a second, but he's not stable, and the sensation of Derek shifting beneath him to hold his unexpected motion overbalances him, and then he's falling, tucking and rolling with it, keeping his limbs loose for impact, and is somehow still surprised when Derek catches him a foot from the mat, easing him down the rest of the way. 

His cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, and he keeps his back to Derek. They were doing well, and he got overexcited, and then he lost it, and isn't that how it always goes? _Push, push, push, Stiles, and then it all falls down._ He hears Derek moving around him, sees his feet as they come to stand facing his own, Derek's bulk looming over him.

"Hey." Against his better judgment, Stiles looks up. Derek's face is concerned, and he's rubbing his wrist absently. Stiles feels suddenly much worse. It's been so long since he worked with someone else, he's forgotten that a partner can be hurt, and he hangs his head again. "Are you okay?"

Stiles glances up again in surprise before he can stop himself. "I'm fine. I fall all the time, I know how to do it." He shrugs, looks down at his feet again. "Sorry I messed it up. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Derek huffs in amusement. "I'm fine. My sis...the partner I worked with most, she never remembered to warn me. I was used to it. But..."

"...it's been a while."

Derek nods, reaches down a hand to Stiles. "Yeah. And you're new to this. So, you have to tell me what you want to do, or we could both get hurt. Okay?"

Stiles nods to the ground, waiting for Derek to leave, but after a moment the hand's still there, so he takes it in his, pulls himself to his feet. He tries to let go, turn around and walk away, but Derek's still got his hand, holds it until Stiles looks at him.

"Again?"

\--

Stiles overslept (again), so when he skids around the corner of the offices into the main hall everyone else is already seated, and Deaton's standing in the center with Stiles' father at his left shoulder, looking stern. It's just the weekly meeting, and he's late more than half the time, but Deaton stares at him appraisingly while his father pointedly looks the other way, and Stiles hangs his head in embarrassment, glancing around quickly for a seat.

Scott's already sitting with his mother and with Allison, all three of them across the open space from where he's standing. Isaac and Erica and Boyd are all at another table, and closer, but there's not really enough room on their bench. He sees another table nearer, with an open spot on the end, so Stiles dives for it, fumbling into a seated position and shivering in the chilly morning air. It takes him a second to realize that his benchmate is Derek, but as soon as his sideways glance reveals the distinctive thatch of black hair and slightly ridiculous ears, he scoots over and shoves up against Derek's arm, humming appreciatively at the sudden warmth all down his side. He expects to enjoy it for a second before getting pushed away- pretty much everyone's used to his tactile nature, but not everyone appreciates it- but Derek twitches the corner of his mouth and wraps a companionable arm around him, snugging Stiles in under his shoulder and pressing them together from bench to the crook of Stiles' neck, making Stiles shudder in pleasure at the heat Derek puts off. He makes some sort of noise of gratitude under his breath, and Derek just squeezes his hand on Stiles' arm, letting him settle in as Deaton clears his throat.

"As some of you have no doubt heard..." Someone snickers and Deaton holds his poker face for a moment before rolling his eyes. "Alright, as _all_ of you have no doubt heard by now" he smiles mildly at the chuckles from his audience, then straightens his face, holding his small frame tall, "we've had our first run-in of the year with a group of Hunters." He pauses for effect, looking seriously around the circle. Derek's gone all stiff beside Stiles, so Stiles leans his head on the point of Derek's shoulder, wanting somehow to pull him back from whatever it is that's got him so uptight.

"There have always been occasional encounters, but for the most part they've been a problem that has stayed back east. For which I have been very grateful." He glances around meaningfully as the crowd shifts in their seats. "Generally, we've stuck to our camp, and they stay in the city, and no one causes too much trouble. We don't go out alone, we don't let our womenfolk go into town without an escort" Deaton looks sternly around to quell the rumble of discontent at this statement, "we take the townfolks' money, and everyone leaves well enough alone."

"This year, though, it's starting early." Deaton has a very good concerned face, Stiles thinks- he manages to express worry without it leading to panic, and it's got some indefinable quality that urges anyone looking at him to do their best to follow through with whatever comes next. "A few of our group had a run-in with some Hunters in town the other day, and it could have ended much worse than it did. It was thanks to cool heads and safety in numbers that we got off as easily as we did. Moreover, I've been hearing rumors that have recently been confirmed about a new Hunters of the Lord congregation setting up shop outside of Sacramento proper. The Hunters we've had around before have been small time bullies; but I am here to tell you today that these new ones mean business. They've built themselves a church, brought in some members from other towns to help prop up the local population, and they've attracted one of their most notorious circuit riders to be their preacher, a Mr. Gerard Argent."

Derek's gone so still and immobile beside Stiles that he worries for the man's circulation, so he sets a hand on Derek's leg, rubbing his thumb back and forth in an attempt to soothe him back into something resembling a normal state. There's murmuring all around now, a low hum of anxious and angry chatter discussing the implications of this news.

"As you may or may not know, the Argent family has been responsible for a great deal of death and ruination back east" Deaton continues, "up to and including the massacre of half the population of the Morrell circus. They're too smart to get caught, and they make a point of being on good terms with the local enforcement, and so I'm sure that I don't need to tell you all that they are very, very dangerous." The assembly has gone still, listening to Deaton's even voice as he speaks, watching him where he stands still in the center of their motley crowd. "They're the worst kind of zealots. Other Hunters are in it for the sport, or the politics, and that makes them easier to dissuade, to distract. The Argents truly believe that their cause is holy, and that circus folk as a people deserve to be wiped out because of our depravity. This means that they will _not_ hesitate to execute what they feel to be their God-given duty, and they will not be swayed from it."

Deaton pauses, lets his words sink in. None of it's really new information, Stiles thinks, but it's sobering to hear it all laid out that way. They've been so lucky, so far- for all the run-ins that they've had over the years, it's never been anything worse than some brawls and property damage, never enough to seriously injure the circus itself or its business. The circus wintering here brings in money to Sacramento, and the town fathers know that, and have behaved accordingly in the past.

Looks like their luck has changed.

"Stilinski here is going to run down some of the precautions we'll be taking this year, as well as some ground rules for how we're going to handle any of us being off the lot. Stilinski?"

Stiles' dad steps forward, clearing his throat and folding his hands in front of himself. Stiles tunes most of it out- it's just the more advanced version of what they've always done, anyway- instead of always take a buddy, it's now always take at least two or three buddies, and make sure at least one of them is large and muscley. Don't bring strangers to the compound, if you see anyone new around, make sure to report it, check and double check all of your equipment, lock your doors. Stiles is too busy rubbing his thumb back and forth along Derek's clenching thigh to hear it, too busy listening to Derek's measured breathing, in and out and in and out and in.

The talk finishes, and everyone begins to shuffle to their feet, stretching chilled muscles, shaking out pins and needles in the growing sunshine. Derek stands, and Stiles mourns the missing warmth of his arm, scoots to let him out of the bench, and Derek leaves without a word, striding swiftly off in the direction of his cabin.

Stiles follows him, tripping over his feet in his haste to catch up to Derek's long, booted strides, but he can't catch him in time, and fetches up hard on Derek's front steps as the door closes in his face, the echo of Derek's footfalls on the wooden steps echoing around him.

He goes back to his own stoop for a while, watching the sun burn off the lingering fog, listening for signs of life in the small space next door, waiting for the door to open. Scott finds him there after an hour, gives him a piercing glance, and hauls him off to practice.

\--

It's a Sunday morning late in November, the one day a week that the two cooks take as a day of rest, and Stiles is busy shoveling pieces of his father's top-of-the-wood-stove french toast into his mouth when the aforementioned father sits down across the table from him and pins him with a stare. Stiles swallows, flicking his tongue out to catch the last drip of syrup from the corner of his mouth, fighting the urge to run from the look being aimed at him. It'd be no use, he knows, he's tried, his father can catch him before he's gotten halfway across the room.

"Stiles."

"Yessir?"

His father leans back in his chair, all comfortable nonchalance, not a care in the world, and Stiles is suddenly much more nervous.

"How's practice going?"

Stiles slices off another piece of chewy batter-fried goodness and shoves it in his mouth.

"'s good."

"Good?"

His dad sounds skeptical, so Stiles nods his head emphatically, chewing, swallowing, and taking a big swig of his water that makes him cough and splutter.

"Yeah! Great! I mean, you know, it's always..." He gestures vaguely with his hands, his fork tracing delicate trajectories in the morning sun, "hard, you know. I'm working on some of the new rope tricks that Elise sent me from Paris, and it's difficult, because I can't see what I'm doing, but I think I'm starting to get it. It feels good, at least, which is more than it did at first." He pauses, thinks for a minute, takes another bite. "And Erica's coming along, she's getting really confident on the hoop. Deaton thinks she can premiere it for the pre-Christmas matinees, get used to doing it in front of the crowds."

His dad nods, shifting in his chair. His sandy hair is starting to edge with grey, and Stiles looks resolutely away from it.

"That's good. I know how Erica gets bored."

Stiles nods again, swiping the last bite of toast around in the sticky brown puddle of syrup on his plate, before hauling it up and over his mouth, sticking his tongue out to catch the drip before it can hit his chin.

"Mmm. Yeah, she's good at what she does, but she needed something different." Stiles frowns at his plate, thinking. "That new regimen Lydia's got her on must be helping; I haven't seen her have an incident in months." He picks up the faded flowered napkin next to his plate and smears it over his mouth, scrubbing determinedly at a sticky spot. “She says she feels safe, now- she told me she's always wanted to do more than just the bendy tricks, but you know.” He shrugs, and his father nods. “She couldn't trust it. It wasn't safe. Had to do something that wouldn't injure her if she had a fit. But with Lydia's work... maybe not anymore.”

His father shakes his head absently. "Me either. It's good news for her; she'd always have a place here, but that's a hell of a thing to have hanging over you." His face closes down, and he scowls at his empty plate. "Don't help us with those Hunters crawling around, neither. Not her fault, but it's just the sort of thing they like to exploit, turn people against us on account of us 'harboring freaks' and the like. Dangerous for her and us both."

Stiles nods. His experience with Hunters has been blessedly little, but his father knows them far too well for Stiles' comfort, and it worries at him, that this man, this man who is his one parent and relative in this world, is also their collective line of defense between the ugliness and danger of the outside, and the safety and sanctuary of their own little bubble of life.

His father takes a deep breath. "What's this I hear about you working with that new roughneck, Derek?" It's clearly what he's been leading up to, and Stiles has no idea why he's suddenly nervous, twisting sweaty palms into his napkin. He also has no idea how his father has found out about their little practice sessions- they haven't been going on for long, and it's not like either of them advertises them. Spies, he thinks, his father has spies all over camp.

"Well, you see..." Stiles passes a hand over the short fuzz of his hair, scratching at the back of his neck, "it turns out he's an acrobat, so, I've just been helping him get back into shape?" He doesn't mean for it to come out as a question, but there it is, and that sort of tone is like blood in the water to his father's finely honed interrogation skills.

"Uh-huh." His father raises an eyebrow at him, and Stiles resists the urge to sit on his hands. "What's this I hear about you wanting to teach him to catch?"

Damn, his sources are good, Stiles thinks, and fights down a burst of admiration in favor of pulling an innocent face. "Teach him to catch? Nope, no sir, I mean, you know, if he decided he wanted to learn to catch, well, now, that would be a whole different thing, now wouldn't it? If he did, that is, decide he wanted to." He blinks his eyes wide, watches his father rub at his temple. "He's a very good acrobat, actually. Just out of practice."

"Son...did it ever occur to you that, if a man who has a particular talent joins a group, and doesn't tell them about this talent, it might be because he doesn't want it to be known?"

Stiles bites his lip. "Deaton knows. Derek said so. He doesn't treat it like a secret..."

His father eyeballs him again, his incredulity practically pulling up a seat at the table.

"How did you find out about it?"

He wiggles his toes on the chilly floorboards, poking a toe out of a hole in his sock to trace the edge of the table leg. "I...found him practicing."

"In public?"

"...no. But he's been coming to practice of his own free will! It's not like I'm even capable of strong-arming him or anything."

"Stiles..." His father looks disappointed, and Stiles heart sinks. "I know that you're smarter than this. Think this all the way through, son." He shifts in his chair again, leaning forward to press his point. "You're a young man with an unknown past who has just signed on with a new group. You are dependent upon them for food, shelter, and employment. Maybe you have a skill that would be useful to them, but you, for your own reasons, want to keep it to yourself, and you get permission to do so. But then one of the regulars finds out about your secret, gets excited, and tells you in no uncertain terms to come use that skill with him, regularly." His father's eyes are pale in the morning light, washed out, where Stiles' and his mother's are (were) dark and warm. "Now, does that sound like a choice to you, Stiles? Having to choose between a secret you would like to keep, and alienating a person in the group you are new to and need?"

Stiles hangs his head, gut churning with remorse. He hadn't thought it was like that, he'd never have pushed if he thought it would come across that way, he just...he didn't think of himself as a person that Derek would have any investment in pleasing, not really, in fact he'd been as surprised as Derek had seemed that Derek had shown up at all. But maybe he was wrong, maybe Derek was just trying to stay out of trouble, trying to placate the kid who could get him fired, thrown out.

"No, sir."

His father sighs, reaches over to thump his shoulder gently.

"Don't look so grim, kid. I don't think Derek's really a push-over by nature. But you need to think about these things first, alright? Don't just go pushing people into doing what you want them to- people have their own thoughts and feelings and _reasons_ for things. You need to be careful of that." He stands up, and Stiles joins him, moving to pick up the plates, but getting pulled into a hug before he closes his fingers around a rim. He's getting too old for this, he's nearly the same height as his father now, but he lets his hands come up to grip at the back of his father's shirt, lays his head on his warm shoulder.

"Just...ask him, ok? Give him a real choice."

Stiles nods into the warm flannel of his father's shirt.

"Yes, sir."

\--

"Great job, buddy. The crowd loved that new trick!" Stiles claps Scott on the shoulder as he slips under the tent flap into the waiting area, his face pink-cheeked and beaming with success.

"Thanks!" Scott pulls him into a one-armed hug, knocking his top hat askew and bonking his shoulder into Stiles' cheekbone. "You're gonna be great too, I can't wait to see your new rope routine!"

Stiles nods, and smiles, but Scott is already off, pushing through the tightly packed backstage area like a homing pigeon straight to Allison's open arms and blushing face. Stiles goes back to peering out through the tent flap, rolling his eyes at the lovebirds as he peeks into the ring. Isaac is gamboling about like he always does between acts, giving the twins time to prep the gear for the next performance. The lions have already run out of the ring through the tunnels into their pens, but the sand has to be swept and Erica's hoop and pedestal have to be set. Isaac makes flowers appear from his suit coat and rounds his mouth in surprise, happily handing them out to the little girls in the front rows, then trips over a set of colored balls at the edge of the ring and literally falls into a complicated juggling routine involving both hands and a foot. Erica's hoop descends to excited murmurs from the crowd, and Stiles can see Derek in the background, putting his weight on it to make sure that it's securely anchored, checking the position of it so that it's not too close to her regular trick stand. Erica herself tumbles out a second later, and she and Isaac move into their familiar performance roles, him pretending to fall in love with her, and pursuing her comically around the ring as she becomes ever more creative in her attempts to hide from him, twisting herself behind objects, shimmying up posts, and finally squeezing herself into a box which Isaac, seemingly still hunting for his lost paramour, sets on her pedestal, leading into her main contortionism display.

The crowd oohs and aahs in all the right places, watching with rapt attention as she flips and bends and balances, her beauty and grace holding them right where she wants them. Only because Stiles knows her can he detect the split second of hesitation at the end when she stands up and settles the hoop in her gaze, and he bounces behind the tent flap in his excitement and nervousness on her behalf. She lifts her chin and begins her new routine, dangling from the hoop as the music swells, pulling herself flawlessly into the beginning positions, Stiles' heart in his throat as he watches.

The first section goes perfectly, not a hint of an error, but as she moves into the second set of moves Stiles can see that something's wrong- she slows, gripping the hoop, and begins to lower herself to the ground, her eyes vacant and her mouth opening. Isaac is already moving, but it's Derek who gets to her first, scooping her into his arms and dancing away from Isaac in a pantomime of aggressive jealousy. Isaac, thank God, is quick on the uptake, and bumbles after them, a parody of love denied, but Stiles can see Erica seizing in Derek's arms as he hustles her through the tent flap, his body defensively hiding her from the gaze of the crowd.

Stiles can hear that Deaton is playing it off over the roar in his ears, making jokes about young love and the vagaries of fortune and competition; can see that Isaac is fooling the crowd enough that they are mostly forgetting the hiccup of strangeness in favor of the joy of the clown. He desperately wants to go to her, check on her, but he can hear Deaton calling his name, so he plasters a smile on his face, hauls his spine up straight, and flings open the tent flap to climb the ladder into the heights.

\--

The second he's down and done, he's out, running in his costume over to the medical house, his sweat-damp leotard steaming in the cold night air. He knows his performance went off fine, but he remembers none of it, can't wipe the image of Erica sliding to the floor from his mind- it's her worst nightmare, he knows, to have an incident in front of a crowd, to show her weakness so publicly, and though he thinks most of those watching didn't catch it, he knows that's small comfort now, and no less risk going forward.

He pauses at the steps, suddenly nervous. She doesn't like to talk about this, doesn't usually like company after an episode, but he just wants...he wants to make sure she's ok, and then if she kicks him out, so be it. Still, he leans over to peer in the window, his eyes blinking at the light from the lamp that fills the room. He can see her lying on a cot facing him, still, now, but pale and wan. Nurse McCall is standing at the far end of the room debating heatedly with Lydia, still in costume from her turn earlier with Jackson on the horses, both of them gesturing expansively around the room as they argue. Erica, if she looked up, would see him, but she's too busy gazing up adoringly at the dark-haired figure leaning over her bed, and if Stiles didn't know how close she was to Boyd, he'd seriously start fearing for Boyd's position in her affections. As it is, it still makes his stomach clench to see the look she's pointing up at Derek, her hand resting lightly on his jacket sleeve as he speaks softly down to her, his face a wrinkle of gentle concern. It's only because he's so grateful to see someone else opening up to Derek, making him feel cared for, he thinks, that's why he feels suddenly cold, and he's only happy for them both to have found this new affection when Derek passes his hand softly over her blond curls before standing upright and straightening his shirt and coat. He steps out of Stiles' line of sight, and Stiles leans in, watching as Lydia and Nurse McCall shift various bottles around on the tabletop and Erica closes her eyes.

The door opens, and Stiles startles at the noise, turning to watch as Derek descends the three steps, raising his eyebrows as he sees Stiles under the window, his expression quickly turning to concern.

"What are you doing out here? Did you come right after you got down?" He steps swiftly over, yanking his jacket down his arms and wrapping it firmly around Stiles' shoulders, making him wriggle with the sensation of the sudden warmth. "You're going to be a mass of knots when your muscles seize up from the cold. C'mon, start walking." He yanks Stiles against him easily, propelling him down the line toward their houses, his legs eating up the distance while Stiles stumbles along beside him.

"I just wanted to make sure she was alright."

Derek nods, waiting for Stiles to push open the door to his cabin, then hustling in behind him and shutting the door, his palm warm on the small of Stiles' back.

"Get changed."

Stiles scrambles to his room, hurries in peeling his damp and cooled leotard off, beginning to shiver as he yanks on sleep pants and a nightshirt, shoving his feet into his slippers and wrapping an afghan around his shoulders. He can hear the sounds of Derek poking the fire in the woodstove, stirring up the coals and adding a log before using the bellows to coax the flames to catch. Stiles wanders back out to the main room, drawing up close to the open door of the wood stove, letting the afghan drop open so that the heat can hit his legs, pushing a knee up against Derek's shoulder where he crouches in front of the hearth.

"How did you know?"

Derek makes a questioning face at him, setting down the poker and sitting all the way down, bringing his hands up to chafe at Stiles' calf, impersonal friction on pajama clad skin.

"That she was about to..." Stiles screws up his face, caught in the memories of the fits he's seen Erica have. As terrible as they are to watch, he knows it's worse for her to endure them.

"Oh." Derek switches his hands to Stiles' other leg, looks down at the floor contemplatively. "One of the sons of the ringmaster at my old circus had the falling sickness. He was just a ticket-taker and snack-seller, but we all got used to seeing it right before it happened." He shrugs, pulling his hands back to poke one last time at the fire before shutting the iron door. Stiles pulls the afghan around himself again, his legs chilly without the heat of Derek's hands. "I didn't know for sure that she had it, but I overheard Lydia talking to her a few weeks ago, and then when I saw her freeze up tonight, I just...knew."

He stands, straightening himself again, hands coming up to wrap the afghan more securely around Stiles' shoulders.

"It was good. What you did." Stiles feels like an idiot the second the words are out of his mouth, but there's no taking them back. "...thanks. You know, for helping her."

Derek looks at him for a long moment, his eyes unreadable in the flickering light, then nods briefly before moving to the door.

"She'll be fine, Stiles. You don't need to worry."

Stiles forces a smile. "Yeah. Thanks."

Derek's hand twists on the doorknob, but he looks almost hesitant to leave, his chest taking in one last deep breath before he pushes the door open.

"Good night, Stiles."

"Night, Derek."

The door shuts with a final click, leaving him alone in the house, alone and chilly in the dark, so he shuffles of to his little room, his little bed.

It's not till he sits on something lumpy on his coverlet in the dark that he realizes he's still got Derek's jacket.

\--

Stiles gets up earlier than he normally would the next morning, bare toes skittering on the cold wooden boards of his tiny room, pulling his clothes under the covers with him to warm them up and dress in his little cocoon of heat. Clothed, he pops out of bed, rinses his face in the ewer, and grabs his coat, hat, and shoes from beside the door. The sun is up, but not for long, which means that Scott will still be working on morning feedings for the lions down in the south pens.

He makes his way down in the morning sun, the fog still burning off and the shadows of the buildings cold, to the sunny field where the unmistakable crunches and cracks of flesh being rent and bones being munched are resounding in the chilly air. Scott is perched on the fence watching as the four lionesses and one lion bloody their jaws in the steaming carcasses in front of them, chewing on a piece of grass as he keeps an eye on his charges.

Stiles clambers up next to him, climbing up the fencing until he can swing his legs over and perch on the top next to his friend, wiggling his rear until he finds a position that's less uncomfortable than all of the others and settles in.

"What's eating you?"

"Hmm?"

Scott turns and laughs at him, his face wreathed in the same open and friendly expression Stiles thinks he's had since birth, and Stiles suddenly feels lighter, scoots over till he's shoulder to shoulder with Scott.

"What makes you think something's up?"

Scott laughs again, shoves at his shoulder playfully. "C'mon, Stiles, you hate being up this early. You only come watch the carnage," he gestures broadly at the contentedly munching cats below them, mouths dripping, "when something's under your skin. So, what gives?"

One of the cats swipes lazily at another, knocking its face away from the kill, and Stiles rubs his hands across his head in frustration. "I...don't know."

"Uh-huh." Scott nods in amusement. "Sure you don't. I bet you don't even know that his name starts with Der..."

" _Fine_ , yes, ok, Derek. Derek is getting under my skin." Stiles interrupts him, looking away to where the river cuts through the rambling fields. Scott is silent beside him, thinking, and Stiles appreciates him all over again, his loyalty and his slow steadfastness. It's easy to judge Scott for his impulsivity (not that Stiles has room to throw that particular stone) or for his single-mindedness, but the essence of Scott is loyal devotion, to his mom, to his cats, to Stiles. To Allison, Stiles thinks, unless he's judged it wrong.

"Seemed like you two were getting along pretty well..." Scott ventures, glancing sidelong at Stiles to catch his reaction.

"We are, I guess, I just...I wish I knew more about him." Stiles huffs in annoyance, kicking his feet against the rungs of the fence. "I mean, we don't really know anything, do we. Where did he come from? Why did he come to us? Why the hell is he wasting his time being a roughneck when he could have his own act?" Stiles throws his hands wide.

"Does he even like you in the way tha..." Scott clasps his hands in front of him and bats his eyelashes to the heavens, his voice falsetto and sweet. Stiles punches him, and Scott staggers away laughing. One of the lionesses raises her head inquiringly, but Scott climbs back up onto the fence, clearly unharmed, and she goes unconcernedly back to her meal.

"I'm serious, Scott. He's a complete mystery. What if he's some undercover Hunter? Or...I don't know, a lost prince with amnesia? Or a murderer on the run?"

"Does he _seem_ like a murderer on the run?"

"Well, _no_ , but..."

"And if he were on the run, wouldn't settling in a town for six months be kind of a bad idea?"

"I don't know, Scott, maybe he's laying low!"

"Hey, hey." Scott rumples his hair, then slings an arm around Stiles' shoulders until he leans willingly into Scott's side. "It's ok. Derek's a good guy."

"How do you know?"

Scott shrugs. "I just do. He's friendly, he's helpful, he's caring. He worships the ground you walk on."

Stiles crosses his arms and scowls at the ground. "Could still be a serial killer."

"Nahh.” Scott shrugs and grins, the rubs his fist across the top of Stiles' head until Stiles is squirming in his grip. “You saw how he was with Erica. That doesn't seem very serial killer to me."

Stiles lets out a breath, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "Yeah."

"Hey, I know you're worried, but it's ok, you know that, right?"

"Hm?"

"You and him. I mean, I know you were in love with Lydia forever, but I don't think anyone's going to be that surprised. And it's not like Danny hasn't always had gentlemen callers." Scott shrugs again. "Besides, everyone can see how you two look at each other."

Stiles kicks determinedly at the fence rungs, and Scott turns back to the field in front of them. One of the lionesses has sauntered away to roll in the grass, scrubbing her reddened muzzle on the ground and licking her paws.

"Allison's a mystery too, you know, but...I don't care." Stiles looks up, but Scott is staring off into the distance. "I've asked her about her family, and she said she didn't want to talk about it, so." He spreads his hands in a placating gesture. "So we don't. But it doesn't matter. I know her, I know everything that matters about her, and that's all I need to know. We're in love, and there's nothing about her that could change that. Nothing." He turns back to face Stiles, his eyes wide open and earnest. "Maybe Derek is that for you, and maybe he isn't. But either way, Stiles, you'll know, ok? You'll know."

They sit quietly for a few minutes, watching as the morning sun warms up the field enough to raise steam from the heating dew. One by one the lions wander away from their breakfast, some rolling around in the grass, some settling in for a sunny nap.

“Is it hard? Not seeing her all the time?”

Scott tips his head in consideration, crosses one leg over the other as he thinks.

“Sure, I mean, if I could be with her every hour of every day, I would.” He shrugs. “But she wants to join us. She is going to join us, I know she's planning on talking to Deaton about it. He'll call a meeting, and everyone will say yes, so...I can wait.”

“Her parents don't want her to join?”

Scott shakes his head instantly, his eyebrows drawing down. “No, no, I guess they're pretty well off, and very proper. They want her to marry some rich boy from the town and be a society lady, you know.”

Stiles thinks of Allison the last time he saw her, clad in riding britches and a leather vest, shooting down a row of targets blindfolded. He tries to picture her in a fancy dress, drinking coffee in a parlor, and begins to snicker.

“Yeah, right?” Scott grins broadly, his ears pinking as he thinks of her. “It's ridiculous.”

“Only you, Scotty, would end up with a woman more dangerous than your lions.” Stiles flips himself upside down on the fence, skinning the cat to come back up on his feet again.

Scott sighs blissfully.

“Yeah. She's wonderful.”

\--

Lydia is mixing something in a small bottle when he finds her in the medical house, the afternoon sunlight setting fire to her coronet of strawberry hair, her pale fingers busy with the glass stirring stick, the light rhythmic clanking sound of her motion echoing in the empty room.

"What do you want, Stiles?"

He sidles over to her side, careful not to block the light, eyeing the ingredients she has set out on the workbench with curiosity.

"Found something new?" He knows she's been spending a lot of time in here, ever since Erica's incident in the ring a fortnight ago. She's recruited Allison, too, with her clever fingers and steady hands. He thinks Lydia took it personally that Erica's doses had failed her, and has been doing chemistry as penance ever since.

She grimaces, her delicate features beautiful even when screwed into a pucker of displeasure.

"Not really. We're going to try something different, but who knows how she'll respond."

Stiles nods. It's all a matter of trial and error, he knows- it would be anywhere, really, but out here there are no medical schools, no teaching hospitals to provide Lydia with sample cases, or control studies. Nurse McCall is no slouch, and knows far more about the broader medical necessities than Lydia, but Lydia taught herself chemistry the summer she was 11 and the circus stayed three months in Santa Monica. A local apothecary had taken a shine to her, and taught her as much of his trade as he could in the limited time available. She'd long since used her share of the circus' earnings to purchase flasks and a microscope and a burner, and had taken up correspondence with half a dozen physicians around the country as “L. Martin Jr.”. Isaac and Erica had turned up that same year, bruised and afraid and hiding Erica's attacks as best they could, but Lydia had taken Erica's falling sickness as a personal challenge and had been treating her ever since with gradually improving success.

"What happened? Do you know?"

Lydia mutters to herself, measuring out an exacting amount of pale liquid and dropping it into the bottle.

"We've been adjusting her dosage. The bromide treatment is the best for her symptoms, but the side effects are too prohibitive for what we do. I tried upping her dosage this summer, and it kept her attacks away, but it made her a zombie, and if she's a zombie, she can't work."

Stiles nods again. It's true, he knows, and it's important- it's one thing to have to take a week off because of a flu or fever, but Erica's illness is chronic, and if her treatments prevent her from working, then her career is over. Deaton would never force her to leave- she and Isaac are family, just like the rest of them- but Erica is a born performer, and to limit her to sewing or cooking or cleaning the camp would injure her as surely as a fall from the ring.

"So, we had lowered her dosage," Lydia continues, holding the small bottle to the light and squinting one green eye at it before capping it and tearing off a thin strip of paper for a label. "But I think now we haven't been giving her enough. She's not having the side effects, but if she's seizing again, it's also too little to be helpful. So." She scrawls something hastily onto the paper, licks the back, and sticks it to the smooth glass. "Now we try something different. I'm playing it by ear, but I feel good about the direction we're moving in." She shelves the bottle near the end of the rack, setting the glass stirrer in a bowl of items to be washed and peeling off her lab apron. "Nurse McCall agrees," she adds as an afterthought "as does Erica. So, we'll see."

She's facing him now, backlit by the window and as impressive as always, despite her tiny stature. Her chin lifts, and he lowers his eyes in unconscious response, looking at his hands where they're folded in front of him.

"What did you want, Stiles?"

\--

"C'mon!" Lydia gestures furiously at him, and after one more fast and furtive look around behind him, he scurries through the door to Deaton's office and pulls it closed. The blood is pounding in his throat because this is seriously something he could really get in trouble for, something that would make his dad shake his head and look at him with that distant disappointment in his eyes.

" _Stiles_!" Lydia's across the room already pulling through file cabinets and drawers, shuffling paperwork. "Get over here and help me. Do you want to find out about Derek or not?"

He hurries over, tripping over Deaton's chair and catching his hip on the corner of his desk, wincing in pain but moving over to take the sheaf of paperwork that Lydia is proffering. He's lucky, he thinks, as he opens the folder and starts rifling through the documents one by one, that Lydia is as naturally curious as he is, because it really should have taken a lot more convincing than it did to get her to help with this little escapade. In fact, breaking into Deaton's office had been her idea, something that never would have occurred to him, in spite of it being the obvious way to get more information on a man whose last name is unknown to the entire camp. Her idea, and her hairpin picking the lock, while Stiles stood watch and hoped like hell that he wasn't going to have to come up with some plausible reason for why they were breaking and entering the circus manager's office, because he really had nothing.

His palms are sweating, and he's trying not to smudge any of the ink on the forms he's shuffling through- he's trusting Lydia to make sure that everything gets back properly in its place, because he thinks that Deaton probably is fussy enough to notice is something is off, and Stiles has no desire to be on the end of that even stare, whether or not his father got involved (and he would). The contracts are sorted neither by year, nor alphabetically, but by some obscure system that is apparent only to Deaton. Stiles pauses when he gets to his own- he'd started signing them as soon as he was old enough to perform in the ring at age 6, his childish handwriting printed above his parents' scrawling signatures. His mother's contracts are right behind his own, and his throat tightens at the familiar sight of her delicate penmanship. It hadn't appeared on his contracts after he was ten, just his signature underscored by his father's, signing away his time and body yearly in exchange for food, housing, and family.

The contract turns up in Lydia's folder after a minute of frenzied rifling, and she holds it out wordlessly, her perfectly shaped fingernail pointing to the bottom. _Derek Hale_ , it reads, in clean and distinctive script. _Derek Hale_.

"Hale..." Lydia sounds thoughtful, papers continuing to rustle as she slides the contract back into place, tapping the bottom of her folder on the desk to neaten it before slipping it into the slot in the file cabinet she has open. "That sounds familiar." She takes his folder from his hands, taps it once, and slides it in next to her own, shutting the drawer with a final click before surveying the space around them and flipping her hair over her shoulder. "C'mon, Stiles. We've got a name, now, let's get the rest."

She pushes past him and peers carefully out the window before turning the knob and looking over her should to raise her eyebrows at him. " _Stiles_. Do you want to know, or not?"

He does, God help him, he really does.

He follows her out, locking the door behind him.

\--

It's a lot less risky here in Lydia's little house, and Stiles breathes easier as he sits on the floor of Lydia's room, her rag rug keeping his behind from the chilly wood floor. The Martins have the biggest house in the compound, and Lydia's mother has decorated it inside and out for Christmas, berry chains and evergreen boughs and a full-sized tree with teetering candles perched on the branches. The smell of pine permeates the house, and mixes with the dust of the boxes Lydia's hauled out of her mother's bookshelf to make him sneeze.

"Yech, Stiles, don't sneeze on the papers," Lydia admonishes him from her seat at her desk, turning pages rapidly in the heavily bound scrapbook before her.

"Sorry. It's just the dust, it tickles." Stiles pulls out his hankie and blows his nose thoroughly before tucking it away, choosing to ignore the vaguely disgusted eye roll Lydia aims at him. "You're sure these are the right years?"

"Hmm. I think so." Lydia reaches the end of her current book, setting it aside to take up the next one. "I remember hearing something about it. I definitely recognize the name, and I remember that my mother had flyers of them. You said he was an acrobat, right?"

"Yeah." Stiles flips halfheartedly through the scrapbook in front of him. He's impressed with the amount of work Mrs. Martin has put into these- he's always known that she's as dedicated as her daughter to the things she deems important, but she's never been one of the adults in the circus that's he's been close to; she's always been too perfect and too distant and too high brow, as well as a little dismissive of Nurse McCall, and that had never set well with Stiles. She's officially the publicist for the circus, and he's never really given her role much thought, but with the amount of research that she seems to have collected in the forms of flyers and articles and pamphlets about other shows and acts over the years, he's willing to begrudgingly admit that she must be pretty good at what she does. She seems to have a source for every circus on the continent, and quite a few in Europe, and also seems to have never thrown out a single piece of information that's come her way, which means both that whatever it is that they're looking for is likely to be here somewhere, and also that it's likely to take them years to find it. "He said something once about how he used to practice with his sister, but then he didn't say anything else."

Lydia _hmms_ absently, flipping methodically through pages. "That sounds right. I'd forgotten, but I do remember seeing a flyer about them, the Wolf Pack, I think. There were kind of a lot of them." Stiles picks at the edge of the rag rug, turning pages idly. Now that they're close, he's starting to feel a little weird about this whole thing, the voice of his father echoing in the back of his mind. "Lydia, maybe we shouldn't..."

"Don't be ridiculous, Stiles. The only way we're going to find anything is if it's a matter of public record. We're hardly reading his diary, here." She sets her second book aside, and pulls up a third. "Now keep looking."

"Why do you suppose he's here? If he's part of some big acrobatic troupe, and especially if it was a family troupe, why is he here?"

"Who knows?" Lydia shrugs an elegant shoulder. "Things happen. Circumstances change." She looks sternly at him over her shoulder until he starts turning pages again. "Maybe they had a fight. Maybe someone died. Maybe they all decided they'd had enough of the circus, and that was that. Maybe..." She sucks in a sudden breath, her hands stilling on the pages in front of her, and Stiles is scrambling up from the floor to lean over her shoulder and peer at the newspaper article in front of her. "Maybe they all died in a fire."

It's a long article, clipped precisely by Mrs. Martin and pasted painstakingly into the book, a two-page spread with the headline _Circus Fire Devastates Boston! 65 Dead, Many More Unaccounted For!_ The first page features an image of a flyer for the circus itself, complete with trumpeting elephants and block lettering, where the second page displays a horrifying photograph of a slumped and smoking big top, charred remains revealed in an early morning sky. Stiles bites down on his tongue so hard he tastes blood, and he can tell that Lydia is holding her breath as they read.

_Fire trucks were summoned late on the night of March 15_ _th_ _to the big top of the Morrell Family Touring Extravaganza to put out a five alarm fire already consuming the tent and panicking the inhabitants! 65 persons are reported dead at this time, the majority of whom were performers at the Morrell Family Circus, including 11 members of the world-famous Hale Family Wolf Pack Acrobatic Troupe. It is unknown how the fire was started, and inquiries to the local branch of the Hunters of the Lord church have gone unanswered, though rumor has it that firebrand Gerard Argent may have stirred up his brethren's fervor during his recent trip to Boston and subsequent revivals in the town square. Many are still missing in the aftermath, and unidentified bodies are being held at the county morgue until the end of the week for claiming. If you have any information about this tragic event, please contact the Boston police directly._

"Jesus _God,_ " Stiles breathes, his stomach tight with horror, “the _Morrell_ fire,” and Lydia nods in agreement, her hands frozen on the page until she takes a deep breath and turns it. The other side shows them a picture that Mrs. Martin must have collected after the fact- a posed portrait of the Hale Family Wolf Pack in its entirety, static and serious in their striped costumes. Twelve of them are in the photo, and Stiles eyes it greedily, searching until he finds him in the lower right corner- Derek, a younger Derek, his dark hair just as unruly, but his eyes warm and his face young, younger, Stiles thinks, than his is now. He bites his lip, looks at the rest of the picture. Lydia peels it painstakingly out of the book with her fingernails, turning it over to reveal a list of names on the back. _Clockwise from top left_ , it says, _Talia Hale, Jacob Hale (the Wolf Man), Peter Hale, Eugenia Hale, Laura Hale, Derek Hale, Constance Hale, Emma Hale, Arthur Hale, Reuben Hale, Cora Hale, and Mary Hale_. Lydia flips the photo back over. The first four, all standing in the back, are obviously the adults- Peter and Jacob are clearly brothers, in spite of Peter being more fair. Jacob, the Wolf Man himself, is hugely muscled and covered in...well, fur, Stiles guesses. His hair sticks up all over his head, and his eyebrows lower to the top of his nose. Peter, by contrast, looks like a dandy, all sleek and coiffed, his arm lightly around Eugenia, who is delicately pretty and impressively short. Talia looks surprisingly like her husband, enough that Stiles wonders if she's maybe a distant cousin, but she's beautiful in a way that Jacob is decidedly not, her thick dark hair piled on top of her head in an elegant top knot, her body facing the camera straight on, chin raised. She's taller than her husband as well, and her strong upper arms are clearly visible at her sides. She's where Derek got his long, thin, nose, and also his perfectly shaped eyes.

The kids are all cousins, and it shows in their faces, but he thinks he can tell which family is which- Laura is dark like Derek, with the same nose and straight brows. Laura and Derek are the oldest he thinks- Laura must be nearly 20 in this photo, and Derek looks like he's in his mid-teens, maybe 17 at the outside. Arthur must also be around the same age, maybe a year younger than Derek, his bearing open and sturdy where Laura is smaller and lithe. He has the same unruly dark hair, and the same twitch at the corner of his mouth that Derek does, where you can imagine that it hurt them to go for the requisite full minute for the photo to set without breaking into a smile. Cora is probably next in age, a mini-Laura around age 11 or so, wiry and curled under Derek's arm, her dark hair in hanging braids. Constance could be Cora's twin in the face, but she's smaller and fair, and so Stiles thinks she must be the oldest of Peter's children, instead of one of Derek's siblings. Reuben can't be more than 8, but he's standing proudly in front of Peter, his fists on his hips, and his face a carbon copy of his father's, fair hair slicked back from a cowlick to curl around behind his ear. Emma is just out of toddlerhood, sprawled on her belly in front of the rest, heels in the air and a giant bow in her perfect curls, Constance's hand resting on her back, and Mary is the only one out of costume, a babe in Eugenia's arms dressed in what looks like a christening gown and clutching a stuffed wolf toy.

It hits him all at once that these people are dead, have been dead for years, not just the adults, but every single one of them, Reuben with his proud stance, Cora with her copy-cat braids, baby Mary who must have never even lived long enough to learn to walk, and he has to sit down on Lydia's bed and put his head between his knees so he doesn't pass out. He can hear the tears splatting off his nose and onto Lydia's hardwood floor and concentrates on breathing slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth while he listens to Lydia turning the pages of her book.

"There's not much more here," she says, almost apologetically. "They must not have found out anything else, or my mom would have more articles about it, I'm sure." She nudges the empty box over with her shoe, starts to put the books back in it, stacking them neatly in chronological order. Stiles breathes some more, lets the black spots fade from his vision. He hears the clacking of Lydia's heels on the floor as she puts the box back where she found it, then walks over to stand in front of him.

When he looks up, her face is troubled, and he spares a moment to wonder when she became human to him again before realizing she's holding something out to him.

"She'll never notice it's gone," she says, and slips the photo into his hand before turning and holding the door open in clear dismissal. Stiles gets up slowly, slips the photo under his shirt for safekeeping.

He's weary, and nauseated, and all he can think is that his dad is right, once again- his need to push against everything has given him information he shouldn't have, and doesn't really want, but there's nothing left but hindsight and regret now.

He straightens up and walks through the door, the edge of the picture rubbing at the skin of his chest.

\--


	3. Chapter Three (the hurt/comfort train rolls into town)

Derek's not quite sure what happened, but Stiles has been strange with him all week. He still practiced with him for a day or two at the beginning, but kept getting distracted and shooting Derek these heart-breaking looks when he thought Derek wouldn't notice. Then, after two days, he pleaded off doing acrobatics at all because he had to learn some new trick, and Derek's been alone in the practice tent ever since. 

It hurts, Derek's not going to lie, but he's trying not to take it personally. It could be a lot of things, he reassures himself. Maybe Stiles and Scott had a fight- Derek knows that Scott's been spending more and more time with Allison lately, and he's caught Stiles staring after them a little wistfully more than once. Or maybe it's just that the upcoming holidays are making him blue- heaven knows Derek has learned a thing or two about that. There are plenty of reasons that Stiles could be acting off, he knows this, and he repeats it to himself even as he quietly braces for the inevitable loss of the warm camaraderie he was only just beginning to take for granted.

It's cold and it's dark and his muscles are tired from the time he's been spending in the little tent trying to figure out how to perform a group act with one person. He skipped the dinner call because he didn't want to watch Stiles flinch when he looked at him again, and he doesn't really feel up to inviting himself to someone else's table. He's on good terms with several folks, but his growing friendship with Stiles has only illustrated how much he's still an outsider squeezing in to everyone else, even those he feels friendly with. It's different with Stiles, somehow- being with Stiles envelops him, brings him into a closeness, an intimacy he hasn't felt since Laura died. Tonight, he's tired, and he doesn't want to try, doesn't want to put on the smile and make the small talk and become socially acceptable for long enough to bolt down a meal. It doesn't matter, he's not that hungry anyway, and if he is later, well, he'll live till morning.

He's nearly to the end of the little row of cabins, almost to his own door when he hears the subtle scrape of a boot on wood, and looks up to see a dark silhouette perched on the far side of the Stilinski roof. It's Stiles- he'd know that profile anywhere, at this point- Stiles sitting on the ridge-line, face tipped up to the hour-old crescent moon that hangs low in the western sky. He does pause, caught in the chilly night and staring, takes half a second to wonder if he should push where he's not wanted. But in spite of his preference for caution, for deliberation, Derek has missed the easiness of Stiles, the closeness of his body and warmth of his smile.

It's the work of a moment to scale the side of the house, pulling silently up and over the gutter onto the flat sloping plane of the roof. Stiles startles when Derek settles down next to him, his eyes widening as his face tumbles through surprise and delight straight into apprehension and resignation. Derek feels his stomach sink as Stiles turns his face away, tightens his arms around his knees. He wants to scoot over and press up against him, sharing heat and company, but he doesn't. He wraps the ends of his leather coat tight around his waist, their breath disappearing in icy puffs in front of them.

"Hey." 

Stiles glances at him briefly, his eyes luminous and unreadable in the starlight. 

"Derek."

"Listen... Stiles..." It's the last thing Derek wants to do, have this conversation, but it clearly needs to happen. He refuses to just roll over and let Stiles walk away from him without at least knowing the reason behind it. It's not like he has enough people left in his life for any one of them to be expendable. Stiles stiffens beside him, and Derek hunches into his coat collar. "Did I...did I do something wrong? I know I'm not..." He blows out a breath, steaming and vanishing in the night air. "I know I'm not the most personable guy around, but if I upset you, or made you angry...I need you to tell me. So I can fix it."

Stiles stares at him in disbelief, and Derek's stomach sinks down past his kidneys- whatever he's done, it's worse than he thought, and clearly he should have known what it was, shouldn't have admitted he didn't have a clue. He should go, he should...

"Derek." Stiles still looks aghast, but he's got his hand on Derek's arm to stop him as he starts to stand. "You didn't do anything." He yanks on Derek's arm, pulling him back down to the shingles, not letting go. "I...it's my fault, I did it. I..." He pulls back his arm, looks determinedly out into the darkness, the words falling out of him, stumbling over each other. "I did it, I talked Lydia into it, and then, well, Deaton's office was the obvious place, so we looked there, and then Lydia's mom's archives, and Derek, I saw them, and I..." He trails off long enough to suck in a shuddering breath, and Derek reaches over to rub a soothing hand up and down his back. Stiles leans into it unconsciously, scrubbing his hands over his face and then up over his head, shoving futilely at his short fuzz. "I know who you are, Derek, and I know what happened to your family, and God, I'm so, _so_ , sorry."

Derek realizes his hand has frozen in its movement on Stiles' back, and he forces it back into motion, up and down, up and down. Stiles is shaking, whether from cold or anger or fear, Derek doesn't know, but he gives in to his own needs and hauls Stiles up against him, tucking him under his arm and pressing their sides together. 

He's completely unprepared for the way Stiles flings himself at him, wrapping his arms around Derek's neck and clinging, pressing his warm sharp face into Derek's shoulder and just...staying there. It takes Derek a minute, but he manages to bring his arms up to wrap around Stiles' body, holding him in place. It's been... a very long time since he's touched anyone for more than a minute or two, much less held anyone like this. It's addictive, settling into his bones as a hunger, a need. He rests his face experimentally on the top of Stiles' dark head, rubbing his cheek minutely to feel the bristly softness of hair against his skin. Stiles sighs, his frame relaxing in Derek's hold.

"I'm sorry I pushed, Derek." Stiles' voice is muffled by the shoulder of Derek's coat, but it sounds old, tired. "It wasn't my business. If you'd wanted anyone to know, you would have said, and you didn't, and I couldn't leave it alone." Derek can feel the tension trickling back into Stiles' frame as his voice gets louder with self-recrimination. "I'm not good at knowing when to stop, when to leave things alone. If you don't..." He pauses, starts to pull away "If you don't want to be around me anymore, I understand. I won't tell anyone, don't worry." His voice is bitter, brittle and earnest in the night air. "Everyone will just assume you got sick of me, they'll never think to ask why, and I'll never tell them anything you don't want known."

Stiles is tense all over now, still trying to pull away, but Derek is both thicker and stronger, so he holds Stiles where he is.

"It's ok, Stiles."

"Don't patronize me." His voice is dark, hard, and Derek nods, letting Stiles search his face. 

"I'm not. It's ok. I'm not angry."

Stiles' face is disbelieving, though his body is starting to relax again in Derek's grip.

"Listen to me Stiles, I'm not upset. I..." He pauses, ducks his head, "I wish you had trusted me enough to just ask, but I'm not mad."

Stiles drops his head back to Derek's shoulder and nods miserably. "I should have asked, I'm sorry, I just, you don't ever talk about them, and I wanted to know, but I was afraid to ask because I didn't want to pry, and I know how stupid that sounds, because digging through Deaton's files is so much more prying than just asking but..."

"Breathe, Stiles." Derek manages not to laugh as Stiles does, drawing in a deep breath. "I don't...I don't talk about them because I don't know how." He chuckles harshly. "Hi, I'm Derek Hale, I was an acrobat until my whole family died in a fire." Stiles shudders again in his arms, and he rubs a soothing hand up and down his back again. "Sorry. But you see what I mean. It's just...easier if no one knows, if all they know is what they see, some washed up man who can lift heavy things and follow directions. It's been better that way."

He can feel Stiles thinking that over, his brain humming from its spot beneath Derek's ear. He waits. Stiles is fundamentally incapable of holding in a question for long.

"What did you do?...after?"

Derek shrugs. It all seems so far away now, the raw searing pain of the days after the fire, the years of running after. He's never talked to anyone about any of it, but now the words come without thought, crisp in the night air, warmed by his breath above Stiles' listening ear.

"I wasn't there when the Hunters set fire to the tent. I was in town for the night. I was fighting with my father, and had refused to perform." He adjusts his grip on Stiles, pulling his coat sleeve down to cover his wrist. "I wasn't the only survivor, you know." Stiles startles a little, holding an inhale. "The fire started just after our act had finished. All of the family was in the wings, but my father had sent Laura, my older sister, out to find me and bring me home. She wasn't more than a half mile down the road when it went up. She told me later she went back, that she saw it, tried to help, but the crowd wouldn't let her. It was too late; they held her back when she tried to go in." Stiles is completely still against him, and Derek rubs his face against Stiles' head to reassure them both. "After that...we stayed for a couple of weeks with a Quaker man who knew our parents while they cleaned up the debris and identified the bodies. He gave us the money to bury our family." He pauses, remembering the funeral. Ten caskets all in a row, their father's the largest on the left, all the way down to the small box at the other end that had held all they could find of little Mary. It had been spring, warming but cloudy, and they'd only had enough money for one headstone that listed all the names and a little fence around the plot, not enough to mark each grave. Someday, he thinks, he wants to make sure they get proper ones- full names, dates, maybe one of those ones with a little lamb on top for Mary and Constance. 

"After that...we left. Our family was dead, our circus was in disarray. We were both afraid. They never officially pinned it to the Hunters, but I've never doubted it was them. Gerard Argent had just come through and whipped them into a frenzy. We'd been harassed over and over by the local congregations, but it had never been serious before that. I'll never know what it was he said to them that tipped them over, but it was enough." He realizes he's breathing hard, clutching Stiles hard enough that it must be hurting. He relaxes his grip, but Stiles doesn't move. "So we ran away."

He remembers Laura those first few months, her hair in a tight bun, the cotton of her borrowed dress wan and strange, her face pinched with anger and determination in equal measure. He can't imagine what he would have done without her.

"We stayed back east for a while. Took work where we could. I worked for two years with a blacksmith in Pennsylvania while Laura worked as a maid in a house in town. We left when one of the local boys wouldn't take her 'no' for an answer, but it was ok. We were all we had, so it didn't much matter where we were." He shrugs, lost in remembrance. "Spent some time in Iowa as a farm hand while Laura took a job as a seamstress. Just kind of kept moving on, never stayed anywhere too long. Laura was in charge of our money, kept hoarding it up, wanting us to find a place to buy some land and settle down, but we never did. I don't think she knew how to put down roots any more than I do, so we just kept moving."

"Where is she now?" Stiles' voice is quiet in the dark, the moon a high thin sickle in the sky. Derek shifts, moving his leg to remove the pins and needles and pulling Stiles to sit in front of him, leaning back against his chest. Stiles goes willingly, scrambling to push up between Derek's legs and brace them against the slope of the roof. Derek waits for him to settle, then pulls the edges of his jacket around both of them, resting his chin on Stiles' head. 

"She died six months ago." Stiles grips his hand, winding his fingers through Derek's, and he lets the grief wash over him, deep and relentless. There are tears on his cheeks, but he just lets them fall, stares unseeingly into the star speckled night. "She's back in Denver. She liked it there. Thought maybe she'd found a place to settle down, liked the freedom of it, not as proper and close as the east. And then..." He trails off, his voice faltering. "Then she got sick, real bad fever, just couldn't shake it. Didn't take more than a week, and she was gone."

He'd wanted to take her back to be with the rest of their family, but there was no way to do it. Even if he'd had the money, she wouldn't have kept for the journey. Maybe it's better anyway, he thinks, that she's there with the mountains and the high plains she'd grown to love. She'd never been afraid of being alone the way he is, had always been more independent, more willing to strike out for herself. It still hurts, though, the memory of that little white cross under the cottonwood trees, no sound but the wind rushing through. He rubs his chin against Stiles, inhaling the warm scent of him. 

"When my mom died..." Stiles' voice is low, and his grip on Derek's fingers is tight, "we were on the road. We couldn't take her with us, we had to bury her there, and now I don't even remember the name of the town we were in, where she is. I know my dad knows, but I haven't asked him because I don't want him to know I can't remember." Stiles is rocking a little, back and forth in the space between Derek's knees. Derek lets him, keeping his grip loose so that Stiles doesn't feel trapped. "I can't imagine...I can't imagine what it's like to lose everyone. I've never even had siblings to lose, but losing my mom is the worst thing...the worst thing I've ever felt, and the thought...of losing Scott, or Erica and Isaac, or any of the others...I can't..."

Derek nods, giving in and burying his face in the back of Stiles' neck. 

"I miss them every day. They were my whole world. From the time I was born, there were my parents and Uncle Peter and Aunt Genia. And Laura." he takes a breath. "I don't even remember Arthur being born, he was only a year and a half younger than I was. Cora's the first one I remember being a baby. She and Connie were only three months apart, they grew up like twins."

"Tell me about them."

Derek laughs, the noise damp and foreign in his ears. Stiles shoves against him, pulling his knees up for warmth. Derek folds his hands over Stiles' bony patellae, feeling the muscles of Stiles' arms against the inside of his thighs. He shifts again.

"You would have liked Cora. She wanted to fly. She was a daredevil, but talented. Arthur was uncomplicated, like Scott- food, girls, pack, the good things. Reuben... Reuben could be too much like Peter. He liked causing trouble, acting up and pulling tricks and picking fights. Constance was the quiet one- always reading, daydreaming. I think she would have left the circus when she was old enough, gone off to marry some quiet doctor or teacher." Stiles _hmms_ thoughtfully, his weight warm and easy against Derek's front. "Emma was sweet, but she was just little. I didn't really know her that well, and Mary was just a baby." He pauses, thinks for a minute. "I think you would have liked Laura, too. She was determined and stubborn, just like you are. Never took no for an answer, never saw any reason why she shouldn't do just what she wanted." Stiles stiffens in his arms, and Derek rubs a thumb across his kneecap in assurance. "It's good. I always admired that about her."

"What about your parents?"

Derek thinks for a moment, his thumb still circling. 

"My father...he was strict. He was smart, but he'd grown up a freak before he joined the circus, and he never trusted anyone who wasn't family. His parents had died when he was real young, and then it was just him and my Uncle Peter. They left the side shows and joined the circus when my father met my mother, but even then, he could be very reserved, very...I don't know. We fought a lot, when I was older. My mother was beautiful and strong and kind and a better woman than any of us deserved. But we were always secondary, even to her- she loved us more than anything, except for my father. When they were in the room together, nothing else mattered. It made them incredible performers, but...sometimes it was hard to be around."

"Do you want that?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you want that? That kind of relationship? Like your parents had."

"I...I don't know." He sees his mother's face before him, eyes lit up and shining as his father laughed. "I suppose I envied them. They had each other, no matter what. But there was no room for anyone else. If there hadn't been the rest of the family, I might have resented them for that. Something so all-consuming...I don't even know if I'm capable of it." 

Stiles stills in his arms, and Derek realizes what he's said, hangs his head and lets himself feel the deep-seated ache of loneliness heavy in his bones. Alone just like he is now, like he's been since Laura left him.

"It was hard when I lost them, but I still had Laura. When she died, I was completely alone, and that..." He shakes his head, his nose rubbing on the soft nape of Stiles' neck. "I'm not built for that. It's why I came to Deaton, why I'm here now. I wanted to learn how not to be alone anymore."

Stiles is quiet for a long time, and Derek sits quietly, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat against Derek's chest. He thinks Stiles has drifted off, and is debating how long he can let him sleep before waking him when Stiles captures his hand from where it's still rubbing mindlessly against his knee, slides his long, callused fingers into Derek's own.

"You're not."

\--

When he shows up for practice the next day Stiles is there, and Derek lets himself smile freely, anchoring himself to the wide-mouthed pink-cheeked grin he gets in response. Stiles is already warmed up, his undershirt damp with sweat and clinging to him, his broad shoulders bare and gleaming. Derek strips efficiently down to his leggings and begins the series of choreographed stretches that will ready his muscles for the work of the next hour. He can hear Stiles bustling around behind him, but he tunes it out, closes his eyes and focuses on the pull of his ligaments and tendons, on the rise and fall of his chest as he inhales and exhales. The sun is warm on the tent, heating the space nicely, and he feels open, washed out and emptied in the wake of the previous night's confessions.

He finishes his stretches, stands, and turns. Stiles is waiting for him, but instead of the usual rope or hoop he works on while he waits for Derek, he's hung one of his bars. It's not the low heavy one that he uses for most of his stationary work, but instead a smaller, narrower bar, hung high enough that he would have to jump about a foot to grab on. 

Stiles must sense his bewilderment, or else Derek has gotten far less adept with his poker face, because Stiles just smiles and beckons him over until he's standing a foot away from Stiles' position under the bar. He lets his eyes ask the question, but Stiles just smiles enigmatically, and leaps lightly up to catch the bar, swinging himself up and over until he's hanging upside down by his knees, his arms loose and his face not a foot from Derek's own.

"Proper catching technique involves having your knees braced wide near the ropes. You want to make sure that there is no way that taking the other person's weight will pull you off your trapeze. So, you need to be securely anchored." He reaches for Derek's hands, wraps his strong fingers around Derek's forearms, pulling him until Derek lets himself hang, his weight supported by Stiles' grip around his arms and his knees bent so that he doesn't drag on the mats. "Other than that," Stiles continues cheerily "it's pretty much all timing. So, you know, pretty easy."

Derek lets himself drop the couple of inches to the floor and picks himself up. Stiles is still swinging gently back and forth, his upside down face both excited and nervous.

"Stiles..." He doesn't want to disappoint him, but he doesn't see how this can work. It's not safe. He's not trained, and all Stiles is going on is memories of what his mother did and letters from strangers. He can't imagine anyone will approve, either- what's the point of egging Stiles on when it's only going to end in regret?

"Derek." Stiles flips himself back upward to sit on the swing, then drops lightly to the floor. He catches Derek's eyes with his own, locking him in to Stiles' earnest and determined gaze. "Last night you said that you had come to Deaton's because you were tired of being alone." He gestures broadly at the space around them. "So why," he pauses and peers at Derek so hard he worries Stiles might strain something, "why are you still trying to adapt a group act into a show for one?"

Derek stops, thinks. Takes a moment to catalog Stiles' face like this- open, eager, warm brown eyes open and pleading while already braced for rejection.

Derek steps forward and reaches his hands up for the swing.

\--

Rumor travels fast in a tiny community like a circus, so Derek is pretty certain that neither this meeting, nor the reason for it, is a surprise to anyone. Derek himself heard about it from Boyd when they were doing the morning rounds, Boyd's voice calm, but with the slightest hint of intrigue. It's the most formal and subdued he's ever seen the group, though, and it's more than a little unnerving. 

It's unseasonably cold today, and so instead of meeting in the outdoor tables they've gathered into the big top, which is vast and hollow around them. The fabric rustles gently in the breeze, pulling against the staked ropes. They've arrayed themselves in a stair-stepped arc at one of the narrow ends of the tent, the younger folks mostly on the ground while the adults are seated loosely on the first or second row of stands. Derek has stationed himself in the back, the third tier, where he can see everyone as they react to what he suspects is coming.

Deaton waits until everyone is seated and done shifting around and settling themselves before he steps forward, his presence as calm and commanding as always. Stilinski Sr. stands behind and to his left, hands folded in front of him as he waits at the ready.

"Ladies and gentlemen, today I bring before you a matter for your discussion." Deaton's face is serious, his manner somber, but not grave. “Your opinions and concerns are important to me, and it is also important to our well-being as a group that we all hear what is weighing on each others' minds and hearts. Therefore I give you this opportunity to speak your convictions in the presence of your fellows." 

He pauses, looks around. The silence in the tent is unbroken.

"As you all know, Allison has been coming to us for a while. She has shown herself to be more than capable with a bow and arrow, and is proficient with the performance arts. It is no secret that I have been considering offering her a chance to perform with us on a temporary basis, in order to see both if her act is enjoyed by the crowds, and if she desires to make a longer-term commitment. At this time, Allison has come to me and requested that we officially accept her as a member of our organization." 

Derek can see the members of the audience smiling and nodding to each other where they sit, a low babble of excitement rising around them. Scott is beaming from his seat next to his mother, Lydia smiling from her sprawl next to Jackson. He wonders, is this the usual way in which someone joins? He snuck in like a thief in the night, based on Deaton's good will and his own ability to haul boxes. It's been months, and he still struggles with the sense that he's extra, other. Would it have been different if he'd wandered in and made friends first, shown himself to be valuable, and then asked to join? Or is it just that Allison is young and kind, determined and admirable in clear-cut ways that he is not?

"However," Deaton pitches his voice to rise above the growing mutter "there is one rather large complication. One that you all will have to consider calmly and carefully." Silence falls again, faces shifting in confusion and concern. "I want you all to know that I consider it to be to Allison's great personal credit that she has brought this matter to me herself, rather than wait to have it found out- it took courage and poise to lay her cards on the table as she has done. I expect that you will all," he raises his dark eyebrows and stares meaningfully at each section of the crowd in turn, "hear her out politely and with patience." He takes a step back and turns to the wings, holding an arm out. "Allison? The floor is yours."

She's visibly nervous when she enters, pale hands wringing a delicate hankie before her, but she holds her chin high, her dark hair carefully piled on top of her head. She looks cautiously at Stilinski as she passes him, and he gives her a small nod. The last few steps bring her to stand where Deaton stood, positioned just in front of their little crowd, alone and visibly swallowing her nerves.

"As many of you know, I come from back east" she begins, her voice trembling, but gaining strength as she gets the words out. "We moved around a lot- my father had a job supplying weapons to outposts and militias, and so we followed the market, staying a few months in some places, a year or longer in others. It got lonely, just me and my parents. I never had many friends, because we were always on the move." She stands steady, her feet unmoving, and Derek remembers the firmness of her stance as she held the crossbow trained just above Lydia's head. "When I was about nine, we bought a house in Boston, near my grandfather and my aunt, and we planned to stay. I was so happy to finally have friends and a bigger family and a place to call home." She pauses, biting her lip as she considers her words. "After we had been there a couple of years, the parents of one of my friends invited me to stay for several weeks over the summer. Her family, who were not religious the way mine was, decided to take us on an outing, and so, for the first time in my life, I got to go to the circus." 

Her face glows with remembered pleasure, and Derek is reminded of Laura, always quick to smile and laugh, but filled with the strength to face whatever came.

"It was the most magical thing I had ever seen. The clowns, the animals. The horse-riding, the contortion, the tricks, the magic acts. There was a pair of trapeze artists, sisters, who flew like gravity didn't exist." She's smiling now, her fear forgotten. "But the thing that impressed me the most was the acrobats. There were so many of them, a family, I think, dark-haired and laughing and I couldn't believe what they could do." Spots begin to float before his eyes and he realizes he's holding his breath, releases it and catches the flicker of Deaton's concerned eyes his way. He nods tersely, trying to pull his scattered thoughts back to Allison's story. She _can't_ know, no one but Deaton (and Stiles and Lydia, now, he supposes) knows. She doesn't seem to, spinning her narrative blithely before her face darkens and her head bows. 

"It was everything I knew I wanted, I dreamed about it at night and talked incessantly about it for days. It wasn't until I got home that I found out- the circus was forbidden to me. Forever."

She raises her head defiantly, her eyes red-rimmed.

"My name is Allison Argent."

Words erupt from the crowd, shocked tones and wild gesticulations pouring forth until Stilinski steps forward and raises his hands for silence.

"Let's let Allison continue her story." He waits until the crowd has settled, then sidles back, indicating for her to step forward again. 

The tone of the meeting has shifted from excited to mutinous; even Derek can sense it from where he feels like he's floating in shock a little way above his seat. Allison can clearly sense it too, but she squares her shoulders and continues unbowed.

"I cannot be clearer than to say that I reject outright everything that the Argent name stands for. You have to believe me when I say that _I did not know_. I did not know what our family did, not until very recently.”

“I was raised religiously, yes. I knew that we rejected the spirit of the world, and that we were to stand against all forms of moral corruption anywhere we encountered them. After that summer, I was deemed old enough to move from the children's lessons into the adult services, and learned that we believed this corruption to be found especially in the carnivals, the circuses, the traveling bands. My mother taught me that my grandfather was a great man, revered for his skills as an orator and his willingness to drive forth the wicked wherever he found them." Derek feels sick, a roiling in his gut. _This is Gerard Argent's granddaughter? God save us all._ "I learned then, when I was eleven, that we stood specifically against the circuses, and that my family and our church felt it was our divine calling to pursue them from town to town, and show people the errors of their ways." She hangs her head in despair. "You know that the Hunters proclaim scripture as their call to arms- this I learned as a child, and never knew to question what it meant, what it stood for. _'For our shield is God Most High, who saveth the upright in heart. God judgeth the righteous, and is angered with the wicked every day. If the wicked turn not, he will whet his sword; he hath bent his bow and made it ready_.'"

"Obviously, I reject this- I rejected it then, too, as much as a child could. I still dreamed of the circus, and since my father had been training me on the bow and arrow, I took it upon myself to learn trick shooting, to practice in secret so that I would have a skill that could help me fulfill my hopes. And then..." She pauses, looks pleadingly at Scott. "Then we came here. For the first time since Boston, we lived close enough to a circus that I could slip away and visit." She looks pensive for a moment, then finds her resolve and continues. "After Boston, we stayed largely away from the circuses themselves. I know there was a fight between my father, my grandfather, and my aunt, but I've never known the cause." She shakes her head, refocuses. "Then we came here, and I found all of you, and I've been planning on asking to join as soon as my trial period was up, but..." her face falls again "...but now, I've left my family, and I've got nowhere else to go."

"Last night, my aunt came into town. She's my father's younger sister, still unwed, and I've always loved her. In my excitement, I lay awake until she arrived, then snuck down to see her " Her eyes are red now, and she wipes the hankie under her nose before continuing. Derek's whole body is rigid in a conflicted combination of pained sympathy to a lonely girl he's come to genuinely like and respect, and a creeping horror of every word that continues to fall from her lips. "I heard them. My grandfather was congratulating her on a job well done. She was bragging about it, she... she'd gone with some of my grandfather's deacons to a small circus in Nevada, and had taken every member of it out behind their trains in the desert and shot them, one by one." The crowd is deathly silent, and Allison sobs once, a wrenching sound that she suppresses brutally. "My father was furious with them; he asked about the code of Hunting, the requirements to spare the children, the women, to give an honest offer of repentance.” Her voice falters, and she swallows hard, her voice quiet and tight in the oppressive silence. “They laughed at him, said bitches breed only mutts, and.” her voice falters, then continues, “that the angels themselves would rejoice at the good hunting of the wicked." She raises her head in challenge, winds her fingers together. 

"I stand before you to ask that you accept me into your family. I renounce my family of birth, and all their ways, whether you take me or not, but...but I would like to stay."

She steps aside, and the chaos is instant, shouts rising, calls for Deaton to explain this, wails of fear. Stilinski steps forward again, stomping his foot until a rebellious quiet falls. 

"Now that we've heard Allison's side, it's time to hear yours." His face is calm, imperturbable. "Allison may have been raised an Argent, but she has said to you herself that she is no Hunter. She is an individual seeking our aid and acceptance, just as so many of us did in our own times. Some here may have been born to this life, but plenty of us came later, for our own reasons, and in our own circumstances. She deserves a fair hearing.” He looks to Deaton for a nod, then continues. “You will speak one at a time. You will keep civil tongues in your heads. We will discuss this like the well-mannered heathens we are." His eyes narrow, and he squints at the sudden flurry of raised hands. "Mrs. Martin, you first."

"Well, how do we know what to believe? How can we trust her?" Mrs. Martin's hands flutter in distress, her wide eyes watery. "She'll put us all in danger! How can we know she's not a spy for those horrible people? They want us dead!" She clutches at her throat, her earrings shaking with her nerves, "They'd see us all in an early grave, and now you want us to take one of their vipers to our bosom? Why, I just can't imagine it!"

"How can you say such a thing?" Scott is on his feet and shouting, "Allison's never done anything to anyone, she's as honest and good as they come. It's not her fault her family are crazy murderers!"

"Scott, down." Stilinski pushes him back into his seat. "I think we can all guess how you feel. Boyd, what do you say?"

Derek should be surprised when a hand pushes into his, but he's so lost in thought that it almost doesn't register, his fingers curling instinctively around Stiles' before the rest of him even realizes that Stiles is no longer on the ground, but here beside him, clutching at his hand and looking pensive. 

"I like Allison," Boyd begins, then looks at his hands, "but her presence will put us all in danger." His face is troubled, his eyes hooded and serious. "I know what people are like when they're against you for no reason but how they've been taught, and Hunters are bad trouble. There's no way we could keep her a secret, and if she's going to perform with us, there's no way to even try. What happens to us when her gun-crazy relatives find out where she is? Who protects us from people who murder whole packs of people?" He looks apologetically at Allison, shakes his head. "I'm against it. She can go away, start over somewhere else. Join some other circus, even, keep her secrets. But not here. Not with us."

Stilinski nods. "Lydia."

"I think she's an asset." Lydia has folded her legs primly beneath her, and sits up straight to hold Stilinski's gaze. "She has a performance skill that we don't currently have, and not only that, but one that involves skill with a weapon. She can take care of herself."

"You'd have her shoot at her own family?" Nurse McCall sounds vaguely horrified.

"I'd have her protect herself, and her _new_ family, by whatever means necessary. We're not without our defenses, and neither is she. She's already proven herself trustworthy by bringing this matter to us, and I see no reason to doubt her without cause. Besides, it's good for the show to grow and change- she'll bring new audiences, both here and when we travel. That's a net good for us." She shrugs one elegantly clad shoulder. "I say we let her stay."

Stilinski nods again, turning to scan the crowd. Stiles pushes into his shoulder, but Derek is too numb to respond. 

"Nurse McCall?"

Scott is looking pleadingly at his mother while she ducks her head, avoiding his eyes, before lifting her head to speak.

"I like Allison, too. Who doesn't? But it scares me. We're too few of us to stand against a mob, and I don't want to have to always be worrying about my son whenever he's out of sight." She sighs, her mouth turned down in unhappiness. "I don't have an answer. All I know is that it makes me afraid. I'm sorry, Allison."

Stilinski places a gentle hand on Nurse McCall's shoulder before scanning the group for more hands. 

"Mr. Whittemore."

"Thank you, John. I don't see any reason why we should choose to live in fear of a bunch of yokels with pitchforks."

" _Shotguns_ , Jasper."

"Yes, fine, Melissa, shotguns." He makes a dismissive gesture, his cufflinks glinting in the light. "All I'm saying is, I don't see why we should let ourselves be run out of town by some crazies who think God is on their side. We've been established here for thirty years, we've got a good relationship with the locals. This Argent group and their cronies are new. They have no pull." He spreads his hands expansively. "Let them rabble rouse. Let Allison make her choice. We can defend ourselves if we need to, and I seriously doubt it will even come to that. The local Hunters are all alike- they like to make a fuss, but they lack the courage of their convictions. I can't see some out-of-town wing-nut changing that."

Stilinski points his hand at the next to speak.

"Yes, Erica."

"I think Mr. Whittemore's right, sir." Her voice is quiet, but thoughtful, her blond head two tiers below him next to Isaac's, "Why should we let them decide what we're going to do? Hunters are always a threat to us, so what if they're going to be more of one now? We all like Allison, and she wants to be here, so why would we turn her away and leave her to fend for herself? We're a family. Can't she be family too?"

As she finishes, Deaton steps forward, nodding slowly.

"That's right, Erica. We are a family, and we are open to those who ask asylum of us. We are not like the rest of the world, the Hunters are right on that point- we do not treat our women as servants, we do not give credence to the color of skin, and we do not require conventionality of our own. If the outcasts and forgotten look to those who cast them out for their rules, how shall they ever have peace?" He steps back, and Stilinski steps forward to motion for the next person to speak.

Derek almost doesn't notice when Stiles hauls him off the stands and out under the edge of the tent into the chilly afternoon air. 

Stiles doesn't say anything, for which he is incredibly grateful. He can't even imagine that he'd begin to summon words to respond. Instead, Stiles looks around perfunctorily, then enfolds Derek in his arms, wrapping him in warm, wiry strength, and holding on. Derek lets his head fall onto Stiles' shoulder, breathing in his scent, feeling the press of Stiles' shirt under his cheek. His eyes are open, but all he can see are the faded images of two trapeze artists flying through the air, and a pack of dark-haired acrobats tumbling and laughing under a multi-striped sky.

\--

It's getting late when there's a knock on his door, the sky having darkened several hours ago. His candle has burned low, leaving a puddle of wax on the tabletop around it. Derek rises from his seat at the small wooden table to open the door, belatedly suppressing his surprise at finding Stilinski Sr. on his doorstep. 

"Can I come in?" The older man shifts sheepishly on the step, rubbing his hand over his head in a gesture so reminiscent of Stiles that Derek gapes unattractively for a moment longer before recovering and holding open the door. 

"Please."

Stilinski thunks a glass bottle onto the table meaningfully before pulling up the other chair and settling himself in it. Derek fetches his mug from the shelf, and wipes the spare cup with a rag before setting them both on the table. He sits back into his chair and watches as Stilinski pours them each three fingers of what smells an awful lot like good whisky. 

_"_ _Na Zdrowie!"_ Stilinski lifts his mug, and Derek clinks his against it, taking a long sip before settling back into his chair to wait. There's no hurrying Stilinski; he'll get to what he came to in his own good time.

"I wanted to talk to you about Allison, son." Stilinski fiddles with his mug for a moment, taking another drink and meeting Derek's eyes. At first glance, there's not a lot of Stiles in him- Stilinski Sr is sandy-haired and pale-eyed where his son is dark and warm. Derek's seen the pictures of the Captivating Claudia, and it's clear that Stiles favors her in his coloring and features. Stiles' mannerisms, though, are apparently all from his father, which Derek finds more amusing than he knows how to cope with. "Are you going to be ok with her around?"

"Deaton told you?"

Stilinski shakes his head resignedly. "Those of us old enough to remember already know. It was big news, even as far away as here." He takes another drink, Derek matching him. "Real sorry, son. Real sorry."

Derek nods. What else can he do? He takes another sip.

"Why would I blame her?" He shrugs. "She wasn't lying. It's not her fault she was born into a Hunter family." He takes another drink, holding his cup out when Stilinski tips the bottle his way. "Besides. She's going to have it hard enough, now. Leaving her family to join up with us. Not easy."

Stilinski nods. "That's real decent of you." He drains his cup, pours into it again. "It is hard, even for those who are born into it like you were. It's a special kind of life, and not everyone's made for it."

"No." Derek pauses, swirls the amber liquid in his cup. It's warm, soothing. "She'll do alright, though. She's got a backbone." He takes a sip. "Laura would have liked her," he nods, then remembers he's not sure how much Stilinski knows. "My sister. Laura. She would have liked her."

Stilinski pours a little more for both of them and they sit silently, letting the candle flame flicker in the faint draft from the window. Derek can feel himself beginning to melt into being warm, mellow. He smiles, and Stilinski blinks at him, then chuckles.

"Claudia. Stiles' mom. She was circus like you are, born and bred to it." He smiles wistfully, the lines around his eyes crinkling in fond remembrance. "She was something else. Beautiful on the ground, and unmatched in the air. The first time I saw her I thought she was an angel, and every minute I spent with her I became more sure I was right." He sighs. "Stiles is just like her, so much like her." Stilinski shakes his head, and they both take another drink. "So much like her. He's got that spark like she did. Lights up everything he touches."

Derek nods, feeling the warmth in his solar plexus spread upward to his smile. Stiles is a spark, and when Derek touches him, it's electric, a static shock to his system that leaves him wanting to set fingers to it again. Stilinski is eyeballing him shrewdly, but he's also pouring another little splash, so Derek doesn't mind too much that he's being squinted at.

"You were a townie?"

"Townie till the day I met Claudia. Then I threw it all over, went to Deaton's father and begged him for a job doing anything, _anything_ that would let me court and marry her. There weren't nothing that was going to stand in my way, not from the circus, not from the town, not from the Devil himself." He chuckles. “I started out on outhouse and laundry duty. Never regretted it for a minute.”

Derek smiles into his mug. He can see it in his mind's eye, Stilinski as a sturdy young man, cleaning latrines and following steadfastly behind the beautiful flier. 

"And then..." Stilinski's voice is suddenly ragged, and Derek reaches out to cover Stilinski's trembling hands with one of his own. "And then she was gone. So much life, so much brightness, burned out in a sudden flash."

It's silent for a long while after that, their breathing the only sound in the quiet room.

"When my family died, I couldn't comprehend it. It was too much. It still is." Derek drains his cup, covers it with his free palm when Stilinski goes to pour more. His head is heavy on his neck, so he sets the bottle aside, out of the easy reach of both of them. "But when Laura died, it was so much worse. I miss her every day."

Stilinski droops in his chair, his hand slack under Derek's. 

"Yes." He sighs, breath rattling in the empty room. "I know Stiles misses her too, but he was young. He has his whole life ahead of him. He will always love her and miss her, but...she will fade. And that's as it should be. We can't let the dead hold us back. But..." He's fiddling unconsciously with the thin gold band on his finger as he speaks, his eyes staring into the near distance. "But I will never stop wishing she were here. Never."

"Was it worth it?"

It's an innocent enough question, he thinks, but Stilinski sticks him with that piercing gaze again, making him want to squirm in his seat like a child.

"She was worth every minute of agony I've endured since she left me alone. Every minute of it." He retrieves his hands, caps the bottle and stands. "Love is always worth it, son. No matter how badly it may come out in the end, no matter how much of a bitch she can be, love is always worth every minute of pain."

He lets himself out, leaving Derek to spin softly in his chair until he hauls himself over and falls asleep on the bed fully clothed and dreamless.

\--

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Stiles considers from where he's standing on a box at the end of the mat. Derek is swinging slowly back and forth, upside down on the trapeze in the practice tent. He pumps his body, letting himself feel the building rhythm as he gets progressively closer to Stiles on every upswing. 

"Didn't have anything to say."

Derek hits the apex of his swing, and Stiles jumps, spinning in a twist and reaching out to catch Derek's hands as they swing down the gravitational arc. It's a solid catch, all four hands latching securely, no slipped fingers or awkward angles. 

Derek snorts. "You? Nothing to say?"

Stiles drops to the mat and slaps at him as he swings past again, laughing before his face grows serious. He rubs a hand over his head, then turns to go climb up on the box again.

"I'm against it." Derek can feel his eyes widen in surprise, and he watches Stiles turn to face him, his expression hard. "I get that Scott's in love, and I have no personal grief with Allison. But...she's dangerous. She's not one of us, and it's not her fault, sure, but that doesn't make her any less of a threat." He chalks his hands lightly, and Derek reminds his body to begin building the swing again, back and forth, back and forth, his knees aching with the pressure of the bar. Stiles looks funny upside down, the same way everyone does- his face is a collection of shapes, rather than a face, and he looks top-heavy, his muscled arms over-weighting his thin, wiry legs. "I care about what's important to me. Who's important to me. My dad, Scott, Lydia, everyone else in this place. They're mine" he thumps his chest, leaving a dusty white handprint, "and I don't see how it's a good idea to endanger them all for the sake of some pretty girl with a guilty conscience and a dream."

Derek holds his hands out, braces himself, and Stiles jumps. It's not a good catch, the timing is off, and they only hold for a moment before Stiles lets go and drops to the mats, rolling as he hits the ground. Derek pulls himself up to sitting on the bar, letting his eyes close as the blood rushes out of his head.

"What about you? Why didn't you say anything?"

He opens his eyes to look at Stiles, long-fingered hands braced on his narrow hips, mouth open as he waits for an answer. Derek wonders about those fingers sometimes. They've been practicing one-handed balances on the floor, and the feel of Stiles' fingers on his own is intoxicating, the rub of his skin, the slide of his muscles as he strains to position himself, it all stays with Derek long after they're done. 

"I'm new. It's not my place."

Stiles' eyes roll so hard Derek is secretly impressed. 

"C'mon, you don't fool me. You've got an opinion on everything. Spit it out."

He shrugs, letting himself fall lightly to the floor, brushing his hands on his leggings. 

"I would let her stay."

Stiles blinks in surprise. "Really? Even after..." He trails off in embarrassment, but doesn't look away. 

Derek shrugs again, catching hold of the bar and pulling it off to be roped at the side. 

"We don't choose what we're born to. Erica's right- a circus should be a family." He unclenches his fists, takes a deep breath. "You took me in. How could I begrudge that to someone else?" He steps toward Stiles, settles a hand on his shoulder. "You're not cruel. If she's left her family, what would you see her do? Become a servant? Join a brothel? You know there aren't a lot of options." He takes his hand back, turns away. “Laura had me, but it wasn't enough. She worked herself to the bone trying to take care of us, and then she died. Would you see the same for Allison?”

Stiles slumps visibly, eyes falling to their feet.

"I don't want anything bad to happen to her, I just don't see how she's our problem." His face is drawn, worried. "Someone's going to get hurt because of her, and I don't like it." He's chewing on his lip, leaving it red and raw. "I just don't want anyone to get hurt."

He leans forward, presses his forehead against Derek's. They're nearly of a height, for all that Derek is older and broader, and Derek lets his eyes close, soaking up the sensation of Stiles' warmth against him.

"Don't worry. I won't let anything happen."

\--

It's not surprising to find her down by the lion pens, he thinks, but it is a bit surprising to find her alone. He drags his feet as he approaches, making sure to make enough noise that he doesn't startle her, but she doesn't turn as he comes up and leans on the fence to her left. The cats are lounging together in the middle of the pen, wrapped around each other for warmth, bellies to the sun. 

"Hey."

She's silent, face turned away, toe of her boot scuffling absentmindedly in the dirt. He thinks about going, and then wonders to where, and so he stays. Scott is nowhere to be seen, but he supposes it makes sense that she would stay here even in his absence. Half the troupe right now is very invested in either cautiously or angrily avoiding her, the other half in loudly and obviously proclaiming their support. It's tiring when no one knows how to respond authentically to you, he remembers. 

"I did the right thing." 

Her voice is steady, no hint in it of the tear that he can see slowly tracking down her cheek. He waits, looking out at the cats. The male shakes his head, his ruff sandy-colored and warm looking in the sun.

"I can't...I just can't believe it. I heard it with my own ears, and I still...I can't."

He digs in his pocket, pulls out his handkerchief and hands it wordlessly over. One of the lionesses is idly swiping at another, shoving herself into the prime spot at the center of the group so that she can take a turn in the warmest spot. Allison takes the handkerchief, wipes her face, exhales loudly.

"I've always been closer to my father than my mother, but I would have been closest to Kate if she'd been around consistently. I never knew why she was off traveling with my grandfather so much- it seemed improper for a woman her age not to be settling down, but I guess now I know why." She laughs mirthlessly, and Derek suppresses a shudder at the bleakness in her tone. "She was too busy murdering other people's husbands and children to bother getting any of her own." She mops at her face again, the gesture irritated. "I'm still crying. I hate crying. Why am I crying? I'm not like this."

Derek purses his mouth, keeps his eyes on the lions as he opens his hands helplessly.

"They're your family."

"They _were_ my family."

"They were." He shifts awkwardly, moving to press his leg against the wooden posts of the pen. She's hiding, and he doesn't blame her- at least he hasn't had to air his laundry in front of the whole circus. "Losing family is hard. Doesn't matter why."

"Aren't you the philosopher." Her tone is too tired to have any bite, so he just smiles at the lions. 

"Had a long time to think about it."

They stand in silence for while, watching as an either impressively brave or incredibly stupid rabbit makes its cautious way across the pen toward the pile of deadly felines. The grass is always greener, Derek thinks, but sometimes it's greener because violent predators have killed off all other trespassers before you. A tawny tail wriggles, and then blood spurts, and then it's all over for the hapless bunny, the lioness carrying her kill proudly back to the pride where they crunch bones and lick her bloody muzzle appreciatively. 

"I never knew we were killers." Derek startles briefly. He'd nearly forgotten her presence at his side, distracted by the delicate brutality in front of him. "I knew that we... _dissuaded_ people from joining the circus, and that we _rehabilitated_ former members," she spits the words into the cold air "but... I never thought about what that meant." Her hands are white on the fence rail.

"You were a child. It's not your fault."

"My father is against the killing. I didn't know, because I didn't know there was killing to be against." She laughs again, and Derek wonders why she's telling him all of this, him instead of Scott. "My aunt and grandfather think he's weak, that he's not strong enough in his faith. My mother thinks so, too."

"Will they come after you?"

She thinks for a moment, then shrugs. 

"I don't know. Probably." Derek waits. "If my father came, I would talk to him. Not the others, though. Not to Kate."

Maybe, he thinks, she realizes that Scott is an innocent, with his soft eyes and his warm smile. She's not, not anymore. He knows the feeling- he tries to keep the depths of his loneliness from Stiles, pushes it down, keeps him at arm's length. It's no good to let your brokenness hang out too far, show too much, especially in front of those for whom you care.

"I just don't want anyone to get hurt. Not because of me." Her voice is quiet again, her eyes trained on the lionesses asleep again in the sun, the only trace of the earlier violence a tuft of brown fur caught in the grass.

"They won't." Derek looks at her, meeting her dark eyes. "We might get hurt, it's true. But it will be for all of us, not for you."

She gazes at him for a moment, then gives him a shaky smile before turning to beam at Scott as he approaches. She holds out his hankie, and he takes it, shoving it back into his pocket and nodding once at Scott's suspicious face as he turns and walks away.

\--


	4. Chapter Four (Lions and Tigers and Argents, oh my!)

The banging on the door wakes Stiles from where he's settled into a post-show nap leaning against his bed, his costume now chilly and sticking to him with cooling sweat. He can hear his father going to answer it, but he pulls himself up anyway, wincing as his muscles protest their stiffness, and wrapping his robe around his shoulders against the chill. He's sliding his bare feet into his slippers when he hears the door open and Scott's voice come pouring in. He hustles himself out of his room and down the short hallway as fast as his stiff joints will let him, making it in time to see Scott fall through the door, pulling Allison behind him. Scott's talking a mile a minute, his eyes wide and earnest as he gestures, Allison clinging to his hand and biting her lip.

"She's not here anymore, Scott, it's ok." Allison tugs on his hand, but Scott stares mulishly at Stiles' father instead, his shoulders squared with determination.

"You don't know that, Allison. John, Mr. Stilinski, sir, Allison's aunt is here. Was here. Might still be here." He loses track of where he's going for a moment, recovers, "She tried to take Allison back!" His voice is loud in the small room.

"Ok, ok. Let's all calm down now." Stiles' father has his hands raised against the onslaught of words. "Allison, you say you think she's gone?"

"Yes, sir, I told her no, I wasn't coming with her, and to go away, and she threatened me with going back and telling my grandfather where I was." She glances down, then looks back up, her eyes wide and her fingers tight on Scott's hand. "I don't have any reason to believe she wouldn't do just that."

"Ok. That's good." Stilinski opens the door and whistles long and loud. "We'll just make sure, though. Better safe than sorry." Stiles edges into the room, both Allison and Scott too distracted by Stiles' father at the door to notice him. A moment passes, then Boyd comes jogging up, out of costume, but not wearing a coat.

"Yes, sir?"

"Boyd, get the twins, and the Crawford brothers. Haul them out and do a patrol, check all the buildings." He turns to Allison. "Where were you when you spoke with her?"

"Just outside the big top."

"Make sure you check all of the smaller tents, and anywhere that could be a hiding place. Allison's aunt has come to pay a visit."

Boyd nods, his face serious. "Do we have a description?"

Allison's lip trembles, but her voice is calm. "About my height, but blonde. Slim, wearing a brown dress. She...she doesn't look much like me."

"We'll take a look, sir." Boyd sets his shoulders, his muscles rippling under his shirt, and Stiles feels a moment of pity for anyone who might cross him.

Stilinski nods approvingly, clapping a hand to Boyd's shoulder. "Let me know if you find anything. And get the boys to double the watches tonight. I'll do periodic patrols."

Boyd nods, turns to go. "Yes, sir."

Stilinski shuts the door, turning back to the room and frowning slightly when he sees Stiles, but passing him over to gesture for Allison and Scott to take seats on the low sofa across the room, pulling over one of their wooden dining chairs for himself and leaving Stiles to stand by the wall, attempting to be as unobtrusive as he can so that he doesn't get kicked out.

"Alright, Allison." His voice is calm as he speaks to her, leaning in and patting her hand, and Allison smiles faintly in response. "Why don't you start from the top and tell me what happened."

She takes a deep breath before beginning, looking to Scott for support and nodding to herself when he wraps an arm around her shoulders, still holding himself defensively beside and slightly in front of her.

"I didn't see her at first," Allison begins, her face beautiful in the lamplight, her dark eyes round and earnest. "I had come out of the side tent after changing from my costume, and was waiting for Scott to finish putting up the lions. I'm staying with the Martins, now," she looks questioningly at Stiles' father, and he nods in acknowledgment, "and I knew Lydia would be helping Jackson put up the horses, so I thought I'd have Scott walk me over." She blushes faintly, and Stiles fights down a chuckle at the matching blush that stains Scott's darker cheeks. He doesn't want to know what "walk me over" is code for, exactly, but he can guess that it would have taken at least as long as it would take Lydia and Jackson to "put the horses away."

"You were waiting outside the tent...?" Stilinski prompts, and Stiles can't see his father's face, but he can tell from the back of his head that he's struggling not to roll his eyes.

"Yes, I was waiting, and I caught a glimpse of her in the shadow of the tent. I couldn't see who she was well enough to recognize her until she moved, so I thought maybe she was a guest who'd gotten lost, but then she turned around and saw me. I tried to run away, but she caught up with me too quickly." Allison rubs absently at her upper arm; Stiles thinks her aunt must've grabbed her there, held her while they talked. "She tried to tell me to come home. She started with what you'd expect- _'your parents miss you,', 'everyone makes mistakes,'_ , that sort of thing. She doesn't know what I heard, doesn't realize that I know she's a murderer, but even so, I can't believe she thinks I'd just happily return." Allison drops her eyes to her lap, her face falling, then tightening into firm resolve.

"When that didn't work, she moved into the sermonizing- _'you're going to be corrupted', 'you're leaving the one true faith for the temptations of the devil'_ , and so on." Allison looks at her hands in her lap, and Stiles wonders for the first time what Allison really believes- she must've believed the same as the rest of her family at some point, children mostly do, but what does she think now? She's rejected her family, but is she willingly consigning herself to hell for the sake of love and dreams? He shakes his head, letting the line of thought disperse as he tunes back in to the conversation.

"I don't think she ever actually thought I'd come with her, but she had to try. Probably my father told her to come and ask me alone, thinking I might be swayed by the affection I've always had for her." She grips Scott's hand tightly in her own. "He doesn't know that I was listening either. He doesn't know that any affection I might have borne her has died as surely as those poor people she shot in the desert."

Stilinski nods, scratching at the back of his neck. Stiles can see Scott rubbing his thumb over the delicate bones in Allison's fingers, his face full of concern.

"Do you think she'll come back?" His father doesn't sound particularly concerned, but he's pushing at the spot on his belt where his holster rests when he leaves the house, so Stiles knows that he's more rattled by this than he's letting on.

Allison shakes her dark head. "No, not alone. She likes backup- insurance, and an audience, that's what I've heard them say. It's true, I think- she always did like the attention of the room to be on her. She won't come back alone, and probably not right away."

"Ok." Stilinski relaxes a bit, his shoulders lowering. "Well, we're covered for the night. I'll talk to the others about it in the morning."

“You don't want to post more guards? Are we safe? What if she gets the others, and they come back?” Scott's rising out of his seat, shoulders squaring toward Stilinski, who puts out a hand.

“Look, Scott. I'm as concerned as anyone, and we will be taking every precaution.” His face is stern, the lamplight highlighting the lines around his mouth. “But if we post guards around the camp, visibly, we tip our hand. It's better to prepare for them without them knowing we're worried, better to let them think we're complacent.” Scott nods slowly, settles back down. “Besides, we've got a show to run. We can't just post guards all night, every night, indefinitely. We don't have the resources for it, and it creates an open invitation to be hit as soon as you eventually decide to stop.”

"Wait, Allison," Scott puts a hand on her knee as she goes to stand, "tell him what you said about Kate recognizing Derek."

"She recognized Derek?" Stiles' father's voice is sharp. "What did she say?"

Allison furrows her brow. "She didn't say much. It was right before she saw me; he came out of the tent a little after I did. He didn't see her, I'm sure of it- he was in the light, and she was in the shadow, and she didn't say anything to him. But she looked startled, and I'm fairly certain I heard her say his name as he walked away." She looks perplexed. "How would she know him? Is he from back east?"

Stilinski shakes his head, and Stiles tries to calm the beating of his heart in his chest by rubbing a fist across his sternum, back and forth, back and forth.

"Hard to say, really. She may have known him at some point, or she may have mistaken him for someone else, or you may have misheard what she said." He shrugs his shoulders, but Allison shakes her head adamantly.

"No, I know what I saw. She definitely recognized him, and it sounded like she said his name."

Scott looks anxious, his handsome face wrinkled with concern. "Should we tell him? Maybe he would know more about her."

Stiles has to bite his lip to keep his mouth shut, but his father clearly knows enough and is saying little, so he bits down on the instinctual defense that leaps to his tongue, presses back the desire to protect Derek from whatever evils Allison's family may harbor.

"No." Stilinski leans in, looking them both seriously in the eyes. "Listen, I need you to promise me that what you've said here stays here, alright? The last thing we need is for the rumor mill to get going, and if Allison's aunt does know Derek, the first thing that will happen is that he'll get linked to Hunters, and that will do him no favors at all, do you understand?" Scott nods hastily, Allison more slowly. "Let me handle this, and keep these things under your hats. Here, we protect our own."

Allison smiles back, still shaky at the edges, but more assured. "And those who ask for it."

Stilinski nods and stands, watching as Scott helps Allison off of the low sofa.

"Yes, Allison. Our own, and any who ask it of us." He smiles at her, and Stiles regrets for a moment his status as an only child- he thinks his father would have loved a daughter, maybe two, to protect and dote on, to balance out the manic shenanigans that were Stiles' childhood. Stilinski claps Scott on the back. "Make sure she gets back to the Martins' safe, Scott."

"Yes, sir!"

It's an unnecessary admonition, Stiles thinks- Scott won't put anything before Allison and her safety, and if that isn't already clear, then maybe his father needs his glasses checked. He pulls at the sleeve of his robe, thinking about Allison's words, about Derek, and about a Hunter aunt who knows him. It doesn't add up in his mind to anything but strange coincidence, but he doesn't really believe in coincidence, never has. Acts of God, perhaps, fickle fortune, sure, even random happenstance, but coincidence? Not so much.

"That goes for you, too, Stiles." His father shuts the door and turns to raise a tired eyebrow in Stiles' direction. "You keep all this to yourself."

Stiles makes an offended face, spreading his hands in front of him in incredulity at the thought that he might not take this seriously, letting them drop when the expression on his father's face doesn't change.

"Is Derek in danger?" The words are out before he can stop himself, and he has to resist the urge to shrink away from the appraising look his father gives him, ducking his head and rubbing a toe against the floor boards.

"I don't know." His father sounds like he's telling the truth, Stiles thinks, and he raises his eyes again, fighting to keep his fear off his face. "I don't think he's in any more danger than any of the rest of us, but...it's hard to say." Stilinski scrubs his hands across his face, pulling the dining chair back across to the table and settling into it. "Don't borrow trouble, kid. He's as safe as any of us, for now."

Stiles nods, hesitates for a minute, then goes to his room, undressing in the cold dark and shivering his way into his chilly narrow bed. He lies there, the winter moon shining through the window, but sleep is a long time coming.

\--

It's been three weeks since the last sighting of Kate, or any of the other Hunters, and the tension that had permeated the camp is slowly leeching into settled wariness from the hyper-vigilance of the first few days. Deaton has decreed that the holidays go on as planned, both to demonstrate to any watching that nothing is suspected, nothing is out of the ordinary, and to keep morale from disintegrating. Christmas went off without a hitch, the Christmas Eve Spectacular playing to a packed house, and the lazy days after Christmas itself full of cleaning and repair and rest, which have brought them right up to the last day of the year.

So maybe Stiles had a few nips from his father's bottle of golden warm whisky before he left his house, and maybe he also had poured some into a flask that he's been sharing with Scott, and maybe Lydia has some incredible concoction in a green glass bottle that she's carrying between her perfectly round breasts, making the sharp-scented liquid all warm from her body, and maybe Stiles is a little bit drunk, but that is all irrelevant, because he has never seen Derek like this in the months he's known him, not once, not at all.

Derek is _performing_.

Not only is he performing, Stiles thinks, but he's actively enjoying it- he's either filched a suit off someone who couldn't fit in it anymore, or he's used his wages in town to have one made, and frankly Stiles doesn't care which, and neither, he thinks, do any of the women in the room, because it fits Derek like it was sewn on him, following his lines like a drawing, black and sleek all over until it meets the crisp edge of the white shirt that opens in a v at the hollow of his neck. He's slicked his hair back from his face, and his eyes are flashing, his white teeth showing in a grin that Stiles doesn't think he's ever actually seen before, but could really stand to see a lot more of. He's chatting, _flirting_ , with Nurse McCall, leaning in close to tease her, laughing when she blushes and flaps her fan, and he's been doing this all night, _all night_ , with everyone, young and old, man and woman, and Stiles cannot tear his eyes away.

He takes another drink, handing the flask off to Scott as he waltzes by with Allison in his arms, both their faces flushed with heat and excitement and exertion. Stiles winks at her, and she blows him a kiss, radiant in a deep purple dress that fits her every curve, tracing up her bodice to curl around the tops of her arms, leaving her creamy shoulders bare to the glowing lamplight under the striped roof. Stiles thinks Scott's been flushed since well before Stiles handed him the flask, and who can really blame him.

The musicians are in fine form, Finstock on his tuba and Mr. Whittemore on the trumpet blasting their way through a polka as old Mr. Boyd III. pumps his accordion back and forth. It's ten minutes to midnight, and the energy in the big tent is at a peak, the whole circus crowded into the center, the ring pulled away and the equipment shuffled off to the side. The women have hung lanterns all over like fairy orbs, floating in the gloom that rises closer to the roof, the glowing light softening everyone's features and emphasizing the roses blooming high in the cheeks of the girls. Erica is waltzing with Isaac as Boyd watches from the first tier of stands, her nimble legs bare and flashing underneath her crimson tutu and emerald corset. Her blonde curls are flying free, and when they spin it's nearly impossible to tell his head from hers, the two of them stepping back and forth across each other in a complicated pattern of footwork known only to them. Mr. and Mrs. Martin are moving in a more stately fashion around the outer edge of the circle, their form flawless and their dress elegant and complementary. The room is alive with color and sound and laughter, and ok, so maybe Stiles is more than a little drunk, but he's just so happy to be here, with his family, with his friends, as the old year turns to the new.

It's the first time in a while he's felt optimistic, and maybe that's the liquid courage talking, but he doesn't care- he straightens the lapels of the red bolero jacket he found in the costume closet, and marches over to where Lydia is holding court in her pale blue ball gown, not stumbling, never stumbling, but rather stepping carefully, his toes feeling a step in front of his head. The music is winding up, and he wants to catch her before the next dance starts.

He makes it to her feet and bows deeply, thrusting an arm out to the side and keeping his knees straight as he bends himself in half, taking her hand and kissing it as he rises.

"Lovely Lydia, my lovely lady, may I have this dance?" He's beaming as he bends over her hand again, and he can see that she's laughing at him, and it makes him happy, to make her laugh, even if it's at his expense, it doesn't matter, it's all fine.

Jackson's elbow comes out of nowhere, shoving into his side and throwing him off-balance, and it's the first time this hour, maybe, that Jackson has shoved him, or stepped on his toes, or sneered at him, but with Jackson there's never a first, there's always a history, has always been a history since they were tiny children fighting behind the tents, and so Stiles, still feeling flushed with happiness, regains his balance and rises up smiling, pulling back his fist and cheerfully popping Jackson one in the face. Somebody shrieks, and someone else laughs, he thinks it's Erica, and he doesn't care that Jackson has recovered from his shock and horror enough to have grabbed him by the red velvet jacket in one hand and be pulling the other back into what is no doubt going to be a real whale of a punch, but suddenly it stops, and someone's hauling Jackson away. Stiles catches a glimpse of Danny's annoyed face over Jackson's shoulder, and winces in sympathy- Danny and one of the twins had been dancing for a while, he probably didn't want to be interrupted- and then someone growls behind him before unceremoniously dragging him out of the tent with a fist around his belt and another around the back of his jacket, and then they are outside in the night air, the thousands of stars spinning around them.

Stiles fetches up against the side of the rain barrel, and before he can realize what's coming next, he's head-down in freezing water, the shock of it knocking the buzz of the alcohol in his system down to a low roar as he comes up sputtering and shaking, droplets of water from his hair spraying all around as he shakes his head vigorously.

He blinks his eyes open, shivering as rivulets run down the back of his neck and into his shirt, and there's Derek, arms crossed over his chest, standing a foot away and laughing at him, teeth and eyes gleaming in the light from the moon overhead.

"Worth it?"

Stiles grins ferociously, remembering the look of shock on Jackson's face, stepping forward into Derek's space as he shivers again, Derek's hands coming up to chafe at his arms.

"Absolutely."

A cheer goes up from inside, and the band starts the strains of Auld Lang Syne. Stiles can see them in his mind's eye, the couples reaching for each other, swaying to the maudlin tune as the little kids run around throwing confetti into the air.

They're kissing before he registers it happening, and he'll never know who moved first, or if it was as choreographed as the movements of the dances inside, two people reaching in time for each other, but he comes to himself with his arms wound around Derek's neck, and Derek's mouth pressed warm and firm against his own. He must make some sort of noise, because Derek begins to pull back, but no, no, that is no, absolutely _not_ , Stiles can feel the stars spinning again and this is absolutely where he needs to be at this exact moment, wrapped up in Derek's arms and pressing closer to him than he's ever allowed himself to before.

Derek's hands on his body are familiar, sure, confident in their knowledge of Stiles' form from the hours and hours of practice, the tactile memorization of angle and strength, but they've never touched Stiles like this, never curled around him like they wanted him, like how Derek's tongue is curling into Stiles' mouth, and even with his eyes closed, Stiles can see the late winter sky whirling away above them. He feels his way into Derek's hair, into his mouth, taking up residence and letting his legs lean him up against Derek's chest, arching his back to accommodate Derek's press forward as he moves from Stiles' mouth to his ear to the upturned arc of his jaw, gasping at the touch of Derek's warm and callused fingers at the small of his back, points of light through the thin fabric of his dress shirt.

It's days, minutes, a century before Derek reluctantly pulls back, his mouth lingering by the hollow of Stiles' cheek, his breath rough in Stiles' ear. Stiles pushes forward again, searching, but Derek smiles gently and shakes his head, nodding toward the exit where people are beginning to spill out, the littler children being carried, the older folks arm in arm. He can hear the band winding down inside, the chatter and laughter fading to a murmur, and he lets himself fall backward in a bend, face to the sky, letting Derek catch his weight and laugh as Stiles stretches his arms wide in jubilation.

Derek lets him hang for a moment, then pulls him back up, steadying him as he staggers on his feet, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth that leaves Stiles staring and delighted.

"C'mon." Derek tugs him until Stiles is under his arm, pressed up against him side to side, wrapped in Derek's scent and heat. "C'mon, I'll walk you home."

\--

When he tells the story later, Stiles will say that he was just walking home the long way to stretch his legs, and that they got the jump on him when he was at the edge of the fences, near the lion pens. It's not far from the truth- it's four days into January, just past dark between the matinee and the evening show, and he was down at the edge of the fences, not far from the lion pens, and they did indeed get the jump on him, whacking him upside the head with something hard just as he turned to see who was following him, dropping him to the ground without a whimper.

But really, he wasn't walking home. He was looking for Derek.

\--

He comes to in a rather serious amount of pain, pain that he's not used to, not the ache of joints or the twinge of bruises, but rather a star-burst of pain radiating from his right temple and throbbing in his skull, and the insistent pins and needles waiting in his arms that are bent behind him and tied to the chair he's sitting on. He blinks, fighting the urge to be sick, and spits a clot of blood onto the floor from where he bit his tongue at some point between being there and coming here.

The room is cold, and probably underground, he thinks- there's a candle burning on a ledge a little ways from him, and the meager light it casts shows him damp-looking stone walls and a series of hooks and brackets and ropes that he feels like he probably really doesn't want to think about. He lets his eyes fall closed again, not really sure whether the spinny darkness is any better than the spinny stone room, but he must pass out again for a while, because when he comes to, there's an elderly man sitting on a stool and watching him.

"You're the little flying child." The old man smiles at him in a grandfatherly way, and Stiles shudders- there's an edge to that smile, an edge of brutality lurking just beneath the doddering exterior, and all the hairs on Stiles' arms are standing up in response.

"Stupendous Stilinksi." Stiles' voice is rough and croaking, and he spits again onto the floor, close enough to the man's boots to splatter, not close enough to be deemed a deliberate aim. The old man just lifts an eyebrow at him and chuckles, and for a second Stiles thinks that he's gotten away with it, but then his face explodes in pain and the man is snarling at him from an inch away, heavy dark eyebrows contorted with hatred, hand still clutching the cane he'd slammed across Stiles' cheekbone.

" _I will call you what I like, you shameless little shit_." The old man backhands him across the opposite cheek, a ring biting deep into the flesh of Stiles' face, snapping his head back and making the room spin dizzily around him again. He takes a delirious moment to be quietly pleased that he will at least have symmetrical bruises; it'll be easier to blend into stage makeup if he's even on both sides, and he giggles to himself at the thought.

"You think this is funny?" The man sits down, and he's dangerous again, calm and collected, straightening the cap on his head and folding his hands on the top of the cane. He smiles, and Stiles fights the full-body crawl of nerves. The room is hazy around the corners, little flickers of light at the edges of his vision, and he's not even sure if it's because he's hit his head ( _had his head hit, ha_ ) too much, or if it's a result of the too-quick way that he can feel his heart beating, the panic at the base of his spine slowly growing higher. "Clearly you don't understand the position in which you find yourself."

Stiles lets his head drop forward, spreading his knees and pulling unobtrusively at his bonds. They've used ropes, and tied them fairly tight, but they haven't bothered to tuck away the knot ends to where he can't reach them, and that, Stiles thinks, might have been a mistake. Might have been, assuming he can stay conscious for longer than a handful of minutes at a time, that is.

"You _filth_ have taken my granddaughter. You have corrupted her, pulled her into sin, and I. Will. Not. Have it." He punctuates each of his last words with a thump of the cane on the stone floor, and Stiles kind of wants to roll his eyes at the melodrama, maybe would if he weren't concentrating so hard on feeling the type of knot holding his wrists. “We taught her to _shoot_ , an ancient and glorious art, we taught her to aim, to pull the string, to _defend_ herself against _scum_ like you, and you have taken it and _perverted_ it, twisted her skills into idle trickery to serve your own base desires.” His face is trembling, his dark eyes terrifying for the lack of hysteria in them.

"Pretty sure she came on her own, guy. Also pretty sure she wouldn't appreciate you implying that she's not capable of making her own decisions."

Gerard Argent smiles again, almost companionably. "You're still a child, just like she is. Tell me, circus whelp, what do you know of _choice_? What do you know of _pain_?"

Stiles opens his mouth to reply, then yells instead, his eyes watering, as Gerard brings the cane slamming down across his right shin, blistering pain shooting up his leg as he instinctively rocks the chair back.

"Wrong!" Gerard is on his feet again, shouting now as he towers over Stiles, wielding the cane like a club. "You know _nothing_! You know only the sins of your flesh, the sin of your birth, the corruption of your life. You know nothing, you foolish child, nothing, do you hear me? _Nothing_!" He sends the cane hard into Stiles' other shin, again when Stiles pulls his legs up, his voice gone silent as he swings the cane with brutal efficiency, hitting him again and again and again as Stiles cries out in pain, knowing that there is no one to hear him. He's trying to pull himself smaller, ducking a blow, when the cane clips him across the temple again, and he doesn't even have time for a last thought as he slides back into the welcoming darkness.

\--

He wakes to a cool cloth on his face, wiping blood away from his ear and his split lip. He keeps his eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness, as he fiddles again with the ropes.

"I know you're awake." The voice is warm, teasing, and female.

Stiles opens his eyes.

"There we go." She smiles at him, turning the cloth to wipe his face again with a clean square. "Look at you, with those big pretty eyes." She clicks her tongue, gripping his chin and turning his face gently from side to side to examine the damage. She's beautiful, all smooth skin and dark blonde hair, almond shaped eyes and a tipped grin, her fingers long and very strong as she moves his face to where she wants it. Stiles wants her hands off him.

"Oh, honey, it's ok. I'm not going to hurt you." Her voice is cooing, sweet, and Stiles can smell her perfume as she leans in to wipe a spot of blood from behind his jaw. "I just want to ask you a couple questions, that's all." She pats his arm, running her hand over a tear in his shirt, letting her fingernail drag against his skin. He shudders, making her smile and bat her eyes. "Now, now, don't be shy, sweetheart. You look like a smart boy, you must know some of the things I want to know." She runs her hands down his chest, arching her back so that her breasts strain against the fabric of her dress.

The only good thing about any of this, Stiles thinks, is that so far she hasn't noticed the twitching of his arms as he slowly and methodically works the rope out of its knot, piece by piece. The rest of it, though, he could do without- he hurts all over, and though he's more conscious than he was last time, he has a feeling that he's lost a couple hours here and there, and he'd really like to know how long he's going to be stuck down here in this horrible little room with this procession of crazy people.

"You know why you're here." It's not a question, not in her voice, with its sultry curve, not with her hands opening the top of his shirt.

"I'm a hostage." He rolls his eyes. "No doubt you're going to creatively ransom me for Allison."

She laughs gleefully. "See? I knew you were a good boy. For that you get a kiss." She leans in again, pressing her hot, damp lips against his cheek. He's hit abruptly with the memory of Derek, mouth pressed to his in the darkness, and he's suddenly closer to weeping than he's been the whole time, so he shoves it back down, concentrating instead on the feel of the rope twisting beneath his fingers.

"Now tell me," she's worked her way down to the third button of his shirt, and hoists her skirts without preamble to straddle his thighs, making him whine with pain as his bruised shins take the added weight. Her face pulls into a saccharine pout. "You poor thing, what did Daddy do to you?" She tsks, and he feels part of the knot come undone, begins working frantically on the next taut loop. "Come on, little boy, let me feel you. You're not one of those sodomites, are you?" Her hips rock insistently against his, and he forces himself to rock up against her and moan, still pulling determinedly at the rope that is slowly loosening. "No, I didn't think so. Not a handsome boy like you." Her smile is all teeth, and she rakes her fingernails down his now-bare chest. "Tell me, pretty little circus boy, your circus recently got a new member. Do you know him?" She's purring into his ear, and he has to stop working on the knot for a moment, caught in the sudden fear that she'll look down over his shoulder and notice the movement of his hands. "He's big, but attractive as they come. Dangerous, though, and unstable. Do you know him?"

Stiles shakes his head mutely, widening his eyes in innocence as she holds his gaze. "Really? Are you sure?" He nods, and she sighs. "Such a shame that I don't believe you at all." Her face is disappointed, "We could have worked together, you know. We still could, if you tell me everything you know about Derek Hale." She's standing now, and the returned circulation to his thighs is excruciating. "I'd make it very worth your while..."

" _Kate_! Get the hell up here!"

"Oh, what a pity." She looks angry, suddenly, the first genuine emotion Stiles has seen on her face the whole time she's been down here with him, but he doesn't let the relief spill onto his face. "We'll have to continue this later. Duty calls." She smiles again, the extra-fake one that doesn't begin to touch anything beyond her teeth. "Don't go anywhere!" She laughs again, tossing her hair, and then she's gone.

Stiles redoubles his efforts on the ropes.

\--

He hears the commotion upstairs as the last curl of rope comes free from the knot, and he pulls his hands around in front of him, gasping at the rippling pain of returned blood-flow to his arms just as Derek comes tearing down the stone stairs, eyes wild.

"Stiles, thank _God_!"

Stiles tries to stand, makes it upright before the world shifts and his legs begin to crumple, and then Derek is right there, catching him before he hits the floor and lifting him bodily into his arms, and Stiles would object if he weren't so incredibly relieved.

"I've got him!" Derek shouts toward the ceiling, already moving up and out.

"Good work, Derek, now let's get the hell out of here."

Stiles grips his fingers into Derek's jacket, hanging on as Derek pounds up the stairs.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, your dad's here, and Scott and Mr. Whittemore and Boyd, too." Derek shows his teeth in something closer to a snarl than a smile, shifting Stiles so that he's even closer to Derek's chest as they burst into a well-lit kitchen and then out the back door of whatever house they were holding him in. "They got the Hunters who were guarding you. The Argents had already left, though." Derek's voice is tight and angry, laced with fury in a way Stiles has never seen from him.

"You got him there, Derek?" Stiles turns instinctively to the sound of his father's voice, and Derek carefully sets him onto his feet so that he can wrap his arms around his dad, clinging silently for a moment until his father coughs in embarrassment and rubs a hand over his hair, pulling back a step. Stiles sways in the absence of a body holding him up, but Derek has his arm, so he sways into Derek instead, looking up in time to catch the tail end of a considering glance his dad is leveling at Derek.

"Yes, sir. He needs to be checked out, though. I can put him in the wagon?"

Stiles' father considers for a moment, then shakes his head slowly.

"No, we need the wagon to take these three into town. We can't hold them at our place, and we need to give the sheriff and his boys a heads-up as to what's been going on." Stilinski sighs. “Seems like this place isn't owned by the Argents, so even if we can find them and question them, Stiles is our only link to Gerard unless we can get these guys to flip.” He reaches out to cup his hand gently around Stiles' cheek. "Hey kiddo, you okay if Derek here takes you back to the cabin and gets you patched up? I need to see this through, and then I'll come right home, alright?"

Stiles nods exhaustedly, leaning his face into his dad's hand briefly, then standing as straight as he can. "Yeah. Bring those criminals to justice, dad." His father chuckles, then nods at Derek. "All yours, son. Make sure he gets everything patched up before he passes back out. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Yes, sir." Derek sounds serious, and if he thinks Stiles hasn't noticed the way Derek's been unobtrusively patting him down since he first laid hands on him, he's fooling himself. "I'll take good care of him."

Stilinski claps him on the shoulder, nodding once before heading off to supervise the loading of the prisoners, and then it's just Stiles and every pain he can imagine. And Derek.

\--

At first, Stiles is relieved that he doesn't have to walk back the couple of miles to their camp, but after he's been on the horse for longer than a minute, he's no longer convinced that this is the better option, because even though sitting on the horse doesn't directly push on any of his injuries, the rocking motion is doing nothing good for his head at all, and every jolt of the horse stepping up or down on something unexpected in the dark jars his sore joints. At least the cold night air helps to keep the nausea in the back of his throat rather than the front, and he closes his eyes and goes with it when Derek pulls him back to rest against his chest, wrapping his coat around them both and tucking Stiles' head under his chin.

Stiles either dozes or passes out again, because they're back faster than they should be, and Jackson's waiting worriedly by the barn to help hand Stiles down to the ground while Derek dismounts. Stiles wants to say something about it, but the look on Jackson's face, added to the still-blooming black eye he's sporting courtesy of Stiles' fist, combine to make Stiles feel more than a little shitty. He doesn't want anyone's last memory of him to be of getting punched in the face, even if it is Jackson, and he's about to say so, but Jackson takes the horse into the barn and then Derek's walking him carefully over to his cabin before he can get the words out. His legs hurt really a lot, and he has to cling to Derek and bite hard into his lip to get up the stairs, but then they're inside, and he's never thought he'd be so glad to see his own damn sofa again.

Nurse McCall is waiting for them, and Stiles isn't sure whether it makes her an optimist or a pessimist, whether she was waiting for him, or for his father, but she's all over him the second that he's in the door, helping Derek settle him on the sofa, busily setting some water to heat on the pot-bellied stove, sending Derek out for more wood, and critically eyeballing every wince that Stiles makes as he gets situated.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three."

"Good. Now?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Two on your left hand, four on your right. So, six. I'm not that hurt."

"Uh-huh. I'll be the judge of that." She takes his head in her hands, her fingers strong, but delicate, and tips it side to side. "What'd they hit you with?"

He appreciates that her tone is professional, because it has been a long fucking night, and he'd really like to keep his shit together just a little longer, just until he's alone, and he doesn't think he could if she were crying on him like she looks like she might want to.

"The first time? I don't know. The second time, a cane."

There's a strange whistling noise from across the room, and it takes Stiles a second to realize that Derek is breathing in and out through his gritted teeth.

"Derek? Go back and get some clean cloths, a towel, and Stiles' night-clothes from his room."

She waits till Derek has stomped off down the hallway, clearly annoyed at being sent away, but not willing to challenge her over it.

"Stiles, honey." She holds his eyes very seriously, and he chews on the corner of his mouth. "You have to tell me. Where did they hurt you?"

"My head and my legs are the worst. I'm pretty sure nothing's broken, but," he licks his lip, "but they hurt." He can't stop his voice from cracking a little at the end, and she nods sympathetically, her wide brown eyes so like her son's. "My arms are sore from being tied up, and I guess he hit them some too, but not as much."

She nods again, watching his face searchingly. "Nowhere else? They didn't...get rough with you?"

It takes him a second, but when he gets it, he shakes his head vigorously before moaning in regret at the resulting sloshing of his brain. "No, no, nothing like that. Just your standard beating, you know." He waves his fingers, trying to ignore the look of mingled pity and relief on her face.

"Good. Well, you shouldn't go to sleep for a little while yet, and if you start throwing up, or if you feel like you're going pass out again, you let me know, you hear? You've had a pretty good concussion, but you've also had it for a good" She checks her watch, "Well, you've been gone for nearly nine hours, so, you're probably past the worst of the dangerous periods, but I'll feel better if I know you have someone with you." She turns and pins Derek with a look that makes Stiles wonder if she's been talking to his father, her eyes appraising and indulgent. "Derek. You'll stay with Stiles until John gets back, won't you?"

Derek looks a little like a deer caught in the headlights, his face freezing for a moment before he nods agreeably, setting his bundle down on the chair nearest the woodstove. The water Nurse McCall had set to heat is starting to spit, so he wraps a cloth around the handle and shifts it off to the side, ducking his head as he answers.

"If that's what Stiles wants."

"It's what _I_ want" she says primly, turning back to Stiles and taking his left hand in hers as she begins to pat up his arm. "Ok, I'll be gentle, but tell me if I hit anything that feels like more than a bruise." He nods, and grits his teeth as she rotates it, moving the arm up and out, watching him for any limited movement. She prods the bruises left by the cane and clucks her tongue, but his chest and back are blessedly fine, and though the bruises on the outsides of his upper arms are sore, and no doubt going to raise up into some impressive welts, there's no sign of any real damage, no fractures or dislocations that either of them can feel.

"Good. Everything seems fine so far. Ok, kiddo, now for the fun part. Derek?" Stiles isn't sure what Derek's been doing, lurking, he assumes, Stiles has been too distracted to notice while he had all his tender bits prodded by Nurse McCall's fingers, but suddenly he's there, looming over her shoulder while she takes Stiles' hands in hers. "We need to get him up, and his pants off, so that I can check his legs."

Stiles can feel himself blushing, and he spares a moment to be fervently grateful for the low lighting of the lamps, because he knows that it's necessary, but she's still his best friend's mom, and he's still seventeen, and Derek is still Derek, and this is really not how Stiles imagined Derek seeing him with his pants down.

Because he knows it's useless to protest, he lets her pull him gently to his feet, biting his lip against the sharpened pain of stiff muscles and growing bruises, undoing the buttons of his fly and letting his pants fall to the floor. He intentionally doesn't look; he doesn't want to know what the meat of his legs looks like at this point. He's not squeamish, can't afford to be as a performer, but that doesn't mean that he has any desire to see the results of Gerard Argent's violence on his own body.

"Oh, hon." Her voice sounds a little heart-broken, and Stiles swallows hard, focusing his gaze on the far wall as she takes his spot on the sofa and turns him carefully to face her, Derek balancing him as he goes with a hand warm in the small of his back and the other at his shoulder.

"Well, you're standing and walking, so nothing's broken too badly. Let's see what we have here." Her hands are brisk, but firm, and Derek catches him every time he tries to flinch away as she presses on yet another slowly-rising deep-tissue bruise. He can tell the ones on his thighs are painful, but he's bruised his thigh and calf muscles often enough on the trapeze bars or his hoop that he knows what that feels like, and what to expect while it heals. It's the welts across his shins that have him worried, and her too, he thinks, as she gets down to them. Derek must've snuck a look at them as well, because by the time she gets down to his shins he's wound an arm around Stiles' chest, holding him loosely against his own body. It's a smart move, because at the first touch of her hand to his shin, Stiles flinches violently away. It's to no avail- she grabs his ankle firmly and presses all along the bone, checking for fractures, and then repeats it on his other leg, leaving Stiles to twist and clutch against Derek, tears leaking down his cheeks. Finally she's done, and stands, leaving him propped against Derek in his shirt-tails as she rifles through her medical kit.

"Alright, Stiles. I think you'll do. You're going to be in a lot of pain for the next few days, so I'm going to leave this bottle of aspirin here for you. No opium; you've hit your head. Take two before you go to sleep, and after that, you know the drill." He nods obediently, wiping his nose morosely on his shirtsleeve and not trusting his voice. "Good. I'll also leave this bruise-reducing cream. Derek?" Stiles can feel Derek come to attention behind him. "He's a little old for me to give him a sponge bath," Derek snorts out a laugh behind him, and Stiles stomps weakly on his toes, "So help him get cleaned up and medicated, and then help him to bed." Derek nods slowly, and Stiles hangs his head. Babysitting, he's being foisted off onto Derek for babysitting. The only way this could be worse would be if Nurse McCall _had_ decided to go ahead and give him that sponge bath after all. "Don't let him go to sleep right away, give it at least another hour. Play cards or something. And make sure you stay with him until his father gets home." Stiles looks up in time to catch her using her "don't think I can't hunt you down if I need to" look on Derek, and suppresses a chuckle just in time for her to turn it on him. "And Stiles, so help me, if I find out that you're back practicing in anything less than a week, I will sic my son and his guilty conscience on you myself, do you hear me? He will watch your every step, and you will not have a moment's privacy." She raises an eyebrow meaningfully at him, poking a finger gently into his chest.

Stiles shudders- there's little worse than Scott's earnest and unrelenting groveling when he thinks he's in the wrong. He hadn't really realized that Scott would take this that way, but given that he's courting Allison...

"Yes, ma'am."

"That's my boy." She smiles smugly, wrapping herself in her cape and picking up her supplies.

"Derek, you come and get me if there's any change."

"I will, ma'am."

"Good boy." She leans in to give Stiles a swift peck on the cheek and smile fondly at him. "I'm so glad you're ok. We were all sick with worry, you know that, right?"

Stiles ducks his head, nods, lets her press her lips to his cheek one more time before she swirls out the door.

\--

He lets his eyes fall closed again as she shuts the door behind her, doing his level best to ignore both the aches and pains, and the fact that he's still standing here in his shirt and drawers. He'd been too distracted by the push and pull of Nurse McCall's hands earlier to notice the growing chill, but he can feel the goosebumps rising now, and steadfastly fixes his attention on the sounds of Derek bustling around the room, creaking open the door to the stove and adding another log, pouring water.

"Here." There's a pressure on his hand, so he opens his eyes to see Derek pressing two aspirin into it and offering him a glass of water. "Take these, and drink this."

Stiles does, the water cool and wonderful as he drains the glass, the aspirin bitter on the back of his tongue. He opens his eyes again to see Derek looking pensive.

"What?"

Derek's eyes are troubled, his face calculating.

"Would you rather stay standing for a little while longer? Or would you rather lie down, and then have to get back up again?"

Stiles gets lost for a second on the blissful thought of lying down before he parses the remainder of that sentence, and then despairs at the thought of either having to remain upright or of having to ever be upright again.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. C'mere." Derek pulls him gently over in front of the stove, and Stiles can feel the goosebumps subside as Derek soaks a cloth in the still warm water.

"Here, let me just..." He reaches it toward Stiles' face, but Stiles grabs it out of his hand and scowls.

"I'm not an invalid. I can wash my own face, thank you." He starts scrubbing at his face, starting at the top of his hairline and moving downward, leaning over to rinse it in the pan when the cloth gets too smeared with grime and blood. Derek rolls his eyes, but lets him do it, reaching over to the table for the bruise cream.

"Take your shirt off." Derek reaches for Stiles' buttons, and suddenly his head is full of Kate, the smell of her perfume as she ran her fingers down his collarbone. He shies away, clutching at the cloth and wincing as his legs pull with the movement.

"Hey. Hey, Stiles." Derek looks hurt and worried, and Stiles forces himself to still. It's Derek, not Kate, Derek, his friend, Derek, whom he likes a whole lot, Derek, whom he wants to kiss over and over again. Derek raises his hand slowly, telegraphing his motion the whole way, and takes Stiles' chin in his hand.

"I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to. Ok?" Stiles nods. "I just know that your legs are hurting you, and so I want to help you get to bed as quickly as you can. Alright?" He looks sad, and Stiles can't stand to see that look on his face, so he reaches out and lays his hand along Derek's cheek, his thumb rubbing across the smooth expanse of skin under his eye before dropping to unbutton his shirt and let it fall to the floor.

"Yeah." His voice is shaky for more than one reason, and he's not sure if he wants Derek to read into that or not, but there's no helping it now. He picks the cloth back up and continues wiping at his face, wiping and rinsing.

He tenses at the first touch of Derek's hand on his arm, but no matter how nervous his head might be, his body knows the feeling of Derek's fingers on his skin, and it relaxes into his grip as the distinctive smell of comfrey and witch hazel rises into the air. Derek's touch is sure and steady, smoothing the cream into Stiles' skin in an even motion, working his way down from Stiles' shoulder to his elbow, then into the rope burns around Stiles' wrist. When Stiles sneaks a glance at Derek's face from under the cloth it's so full of rage and concern that Stiles is floored, but for all that Derek looks like he's about to crack a molar with strain, his hands are nothing but calming relief.

Derek moves to Stiles' other arm, and Stiles forces himself to rinse the cloth again and go back over the side of his face where the blood from his temple wound had run. He thinks he's mostly gotten it all, but when Derek finishes with his arm and comes back to stand in front of him, his lip twitches faintly and he takes the cloth out of Stiles' hand and pauses just for a moment before running it carefully under the edge of his jaw. Stiles tips his head obligingly back and to the side, and Derek's ragged intake of breath makes the blood jump in his veins.

He sets the cloth back into the pan, pulling it off the stove altogether and setting it on the worktop before he drops abruptly to his knees at Stiles' feet, leaving Stiles to grasp at his shoulders for balance. His head is level with Stiles' hip, and it's unbearably intimate suddenly, Derek on his knees at Stiles' feet and Stiles next to naked in front of him.

He gasps when Derek rubs the cream into the first bruise on his thigh, and finds himself absurdly thankful that the pain is enough to distract him from winding up in a very embarrassing position right in front of Derek's face. He can't bite back the moan that wrings out of him at the feeling of Derek's long, broad fingertips on his inner thigh, however, and gives up instantly any pretense of decorum. He's in his skivvies while the man he's more than a little in love with rubs medicine into bruises he sustained while being held captive and beaten by his best friend's girlfriend's family, really there's just no salvaging any of this situation, so he may as well just go with it.

Derek works him over slowly, his sure fingers finding every bruise, every twinge, pressing into Stiles' flesh and bone with the sort of steady determined care that Stiles has seen from him every minute of every day, and Stiles winds a hand into Derek's hair and hangs on. He braces his other hand on a shoulder, lets his head fall back in the push and pull of pain and relief, his mouth moving as he gasps and whines and mumbles gratitude at the silent man in front of him.

Finally, finally, Derek is done, and he stands stiffly, balancing himself as he rises with his hands on Stiles' hips, then reaching out to grab Stiles' night-shirt and drop it over Stiles' head. Stiles gets twisted in the fabric for a moment, surfacing out of a laundered cotton trap to meet Derek's laughing face, spluttering in mild indignation as he manages to find the arm holes and yank the body down to cover what small shreds of his dignity remain.

He opens his mouth in reflex to comment, but Derek is there before he can get a word out, his hands cupping Stiles' face, ever mindful of the bruising at his temple, his cheekbone, but directing his head unerringly so that his mouth meets Derek's.

It's a sweet kiss, comforting and steady, and Stiles brings his hands up to rest on Derek's neck, holding him there as their mouths move against each other, reassuring and confirming one to the other. He's not sure quite how it turns into more; maybe it's when he locks his fingers into the short dark hair at the nape of Derek's neck, or maybe it's when Derek lets go of his face and just begins running his hands indiscriminately up and down Stiles' arms and torso, pressing at his waist, under his arms. Maybe it's when Stiles slips his tongue into Derek's mouth and lingers, dragging it across Derek's teeth.

Either way, it ends with them standing pressed up against each other, breathing hard and holding on to each other while Stiles' shirt makes a feeble attempt to hide the tenting at its front, and Stiles tries not to sway too alarmingly on his feet under the influence of pain, exhaustion, and now rampant lust tearing through his veins. Derek's hands are strong on his hips, taking his weight and steadying him, ever mindful.

Derek, ever the responsible one, steps back.

"Stiles. C'mon." He holds out a hand, snagging the water glass with his other, and leaning over to blow out the lamp as Stiles steps forward to slip his fingers into Derek's. "Time for bed."

\--

He'd thought he'd have to struggle to finish out Nurse McCall's prescribed hour of wakefulness as soon as he hit his mattress. He didn't think there'd be any way to resist the pull of sleep, what with the kind of day he's had.

He'd thought wrong, apparently.

He can hear Derek's even breathing from where he's sitting in a dark corner of Stiles' room, can tell he's still awake.

Just like Stiles is.

He tosses again, trying to find some position, any position, that will make everything hurt less, but there isn't one. He's tried them all. The bruise cream is no doubt doing its thing, and he can tell that the aspirin have helped, but they're never going to take away the ache in his shoulders where they were held back, or the slow and steady throbbing pain coming from his poor legs. Not to mention that being in the dark with his thoughts is always something that makes Stiles just a little bit twitchier.

He turns again.

"Why aren't you asleep yet?"

Stiles shrugs, a useless gesture in the dark, but who cares.

"Can't get comfortable."

Derek sighs from the corner.

"Also, it..." He should really just stop with the whining already, he knows, but it's late and he's tired, and his judgment is compromised when it comes to these things, "Everything hurts."

Derek sighs, then shuffles, and Stiles can hear him getting out of the chair to come stand by the bed. There's a rustling and clank of metal that must be him dropping his pants, and the sound of his boots thunking on the floor beside the bed.

"Scoot over."

"Uhh..."

"C'mon, Stiles, scoot over."

Stiles scoots, and Derek wedges in behind him, the bed dipping beneath his weight. The heat of him is instantly noticeable, and Stiles presses back so that he's up against Derek's front, sighing as Derek's body heat sinks into his sore muscles. Derek always runs hot, Stiles knew this from practice, but the feeling of it pressed against him is glorious, making him shudder in pleasure as his body relaxes. Derek chuckles, shoving Stiles around until he can get an arm under Stiles' neck, bending his elbow so that his palm comes to rest squarely over Stiles' heart.

"Better?" Derek's voice is wry, and Stiles _mmm_ s happily, winding his top leg back over Derek's to shove his freezing toes between Derek's two warm feet. Derek jumps, then chuckles.

" _Yeah_."

Derek brings his other hand up under Stiles' arm, his fingers digging into the muscles of Stiles' chest, and Stiles can't hold back a moan at the relief it brings, his body relaxing further into Derek's sure hold as Derek's fingers unerringly find the soreness of over-extension, where the cold from the dungeon had set his muscles into tight unhappiness as he strained against his bonds. Derek laughs quietly behind him, but Stiles has given up on any idea of holding back, so he lets his mouth hang open, lets the sounds come as they will while Derek works his way methodically from Stiles' neck to his shoulder joint to his chest.

He's nearly forgotten that he's half naked in his bed with the man he's pulled himself off to more than once until Derek rubs his open palm across Stiles' chest and his thumb catches on a nipple, causing Stiles to arch his back and make an entirely different sort of noise altogether. Derek freezes, then rubs his thumb across it again almost unthinkingly, and Stiles' hand clutches where it's resting on Derek's thigh. His night shirt has rucked up in the process of all the tossing and turning he's been doing, and there's nothing between the skin of his legs and Derek's save Derek's knee-length drawers.

Derek's hands are frozen on him, warm and steady and strong, and Stiles realizes abruptly that he's achingly hard. He blames the fuzziness of his head for how that managed to happen without him really noticing, and the warm dexterousness of Derek's hands for why it's happened at all. He can hear Derek's intentionally even breathing behind him, can see his face in his mind's eye, and really, there's no decision to be made, this thing between them may have been light and easy, or even deniable, before tonight, but here in the dark, in this bed made of Stiles' bruises and Derek's fear, there's no room for pretense between them, no space for anything but the honesty of their hearts and bodies.

Stiles reaches out, takes Derek's immobile hand in his, and pulls it down under the edge of his nightshirt to rest on his naked hipbone, fingers of both their hands brushing into the hair between his legs.

"Please."

It's not a beg, or a plea- it's a request, a heart-felt entreaty, and the effect on Derek is instantaneous and electric. He gets his face into Stiles' neck, his mouth warm and his teeth sharp against the tendons that run up from Stiles' shoulder to his skull, and Stiles throws his head back and moans at the sensation of Derek's teeth rasping at his throat as his hand closes around Stiles' cock.

"Yes?" Derek's voice is raw in his ear, warm breath moving across his skin as Derek presses his mouth to Stiles' ear, his neck, his jawline, the corner of his mouth, anywhere he can find purchase. Stiles' hips are moving without his conscious intent, pressing back and forth between the firm grip of Derek's fist and the hard press of Derek's thighs behind him.

" _Yes_ , God, yes, Derek, _please_..." He reaches back and grips at Derek's hip, using his other hand to slide Derek's right hand up from his chest to his mouth so that he can suck Derek's finger into his mouth, licking down to the base and biting at the pad as Derek groans around him.

"Wait, _wait_ , Stiles, hang on..." Stiles whines, because the thought of waiting is awful, terrible, and not in any way a thing that he wants to do, but Derek's hand is suddenly gone, and Stiles thrusts into thin air and whines again as Derek laughs breathlessly at him. "Just...one sec..." He can feel Derek's hand moving behind him, hears the quiet slip of buttons, and then Derek is pulling his leg down and around so that it's between Derek's, hitching his own knee up to rest on Stiles' hip, careful not to jar any of his bruises. Stiles bites again on Derek's finger where it's still in his mouth, and Derek groans, his movements getting faster as Stiles grins around the digit, pulling off to suck its brother into his mouth.

" _God_ , just..." Derek's hand is careful as it lifts Stiles' thigh, a frustrating counterpoint to Stiles' own impatience, then there's something else there, and Stiles kicks his hips involuntarily as he realizes this is Derek's cock between his legs, pressing up against the back of his balls. It's the hottest thing he's never thought of, and he moans around Derek's finger before Derek's even managed to get his hand back on Stiles' dick.

"Ok, ok, there, _shh_ , just...yeah. Like that." Derek buries his face in Stiles' neck, using his hips to propel Stiles forward and backward, rocking him in and out of Derek's hand, moving himself back and forth inside the warm pressure of Stiles' thighs. "God, _yeah_ , Stiles. Just like that."

He's flying, he thinks, his hands clutching to Derek's arms as they wrap around him, his head thrown back and his mouth open, eyes flickering shut, then open, as the pressure mounts in his chest, his groin, his everything. They're not moving too quickly, but Derek's forearms have them pinned together, and Stiles can feel the minute tremors shaking through Derek's body, can feel the throb of Derek's cock between his thighs. It catches him off guard when it hits him, his muscles tightening from his toes to his head as he chokes on air and comes all over Derek's hand and his sheets, his throat closing up as he feels Derek push into him a jagged handful of times and then shudder to a stop behind him, warm and sticky between Stiles' thighs. He thinks there may be a couple of additional bruises on his hips tomorrow that maybe weren't there when he lay down this evening, but he's perversely glad, happy to have marks on his body born of love instead of hate, marks that show that he is wanted, desired, and cared for.

They lie there in silence for a long moment, listening to the pounding of each others' hearts, letting their breathing even out, rough in the quiet room. Eventually Derek moves his hand, wiping it on the hip of his own drawers and tugging Stiles' night shirt down to cover him again before he does up his own buttons and rolls onto his back. Stiles follows him over, arranging himself carefully against Derek's side, arm across his chest and feet tangled, rubbing his face mindlessly in tiny motions against the cloth of Derek's shirt.

Derek's arm comes around his shoulders, fingers digging into Stiles' short hair.

"Better?"

Stiles sniggers, shoving his face into Derek's armpit to hide it, smiling as he feels Derek's chest moving in silent laughter.

"So much," he pulls his face out, and meets Derek's smiling eyes in the darkened room. "So, _so_ much."

\--

The first day after is horrible, and the second also, but he forces himself to get out of bed and stretch several times both days, and so by day three he's feeling not quite so bed-ridden, and thank god for it, because he is driving both himself and his father absolutely up the walls. His friends come to visit when they can, but the shows are ongoing, and though the Stupendous Stilinski may not be taking the stage, everyone else is.

He's just finished rubbing more of the bruise cream into his nicely purpling welts when he hears the knock at the door, so he yanks his pants up and pulls on his shirt, then goes to answer it.

"Hi, Stiles!" greets Allison when the door swings open. She's pink-cheeked and lovely standing on his stoop, bundled against the January chill, and Stiles steps back to let her in, pulling out a chair at the table for her and settling in opposite her.

"Allison! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" He smiles beatifically, spreading his hands wide. "Did Scott send you? You can tell him I've noticed that he's slacking on his best-friend-ly duties."

She laughs, then bites her lip, her face pulling in concern.

"No, I just...how are you, Stiles?" She pulls off a purple mitten, reaching out to settle a hand on his, big brown eyes searching his face earnestly.

"Brilliant! Fantastic! One might even say..." he winks broadly at her, "that I'm stupendous." She rolls her eyes, squeezes his fingers, and he sobers for a moment, unable to help seeing Gerard in the tilt of her eyes, the line of her nose. "I'll be fine, Allison, really. It wasn't fun, but I'm healing good, and I'll be back up there before you know it." He pats her hand.

She sighs, looks away, then fishes around in her coat pocket for a minute before dragging out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and shoving it across the table at him. "Here. It's late for Christmas, but. I feel really bad, so."

He blinks at her in surprise, then pulls the package over when she refuses to meet his eyes, yanking at the string around it till it gives, folding back the brown paper to reveal...

"A hat?"

"And mittens!" She gestures impatiently, picking the hat out of the paper and shaking a pair of mittens out of it before pushing it at Stiles and gesturing for him to try it on. "I just...I thought maybe your ears get cold" she finishes lamely, "and maybe your fingers, too."

He yanks it on over his head, settling the brim around his ears. It's a bright cherry red, soft and well-made, and he can imagine, as he pulls the mittens on, Allison sitting with needles in her hands, clacking them back and forth. He's pretty sure she's no less deadly with any one pointed object than any other, and takes a moment to be grateful that she's choosing to use her skills for warm and attractive winter-wear where he's concerned.

He grins. "These are amazing, Allison. I haven't had a new hat since..." He pauses, smiles again, "in a long time. Thanks!" He pulls the brim down over his eyes, rubbing it back and forth. The hat is really soft; he's already in love with it. He rolls it back up to see her laughing quietly at him, tugging her own mittens back on.

"I should get going." She stands, straightens her skirts. "Lydia and I are working on a new routine, and I need to get back to her. I'll tell Scott you're crying yourself to sleep in his absence, shall I?" Stiles nods sagely, and clasps a hand to his heart, pulling his mouth down in a parody of woe. She laughs again, and turns to go.

"Hey, Allison." He touches her arm, and she turns back, a curious, but wary, expression on her face. "You know I don't blame you, right? I accept your apology hat, cause it's fantastic, but this was never your fault." Her face falls for a second, but then she aims a wavering smile at him and nods gratefully.

"Thank you, Stiles. I didn't really think you would, but...I do."

He shakes his head, opens his mouth, and she holds up a hand to forestall him.

"No, I'm not going to argue. I'm just glad that we can still be friends, ok? And I do hope you finish healing soon."

He nods, mouth closing with a clack, and she tightens her shawl and lifts her chin, throwing him one last smile as she strides out the door.

\--

It's a week before Melissa McCall deems Stiles fit enough to begin gentle workouts again ( _gentle, Stiles, gentle. Derek, make sure he doesn't strain himself_ ), and another week after that before he's up to using the trapeze again, but the crowds welcome him back with great fanfare, so even if he has to keep his routines on the less-demanding side for a little bit, it's still good to be back.

Derek helps him the whole way, coming over to the house whenever he's not needed backstage or for set up or tear down, nodding respectfully at Stiles' father as he helps Stiles out of the house for progressively longer walks, and into the training tent for stretching, and then warming up, and finally into practice again.

Derek is...unlike anyone Stiles has known before, and Stiles is absolutely taken with watching him become progressively more and more open. It seems as though Stiles' kidnapping broke something loose in him, and his actions during and following have endeared him to those closest to Stiles. Erica and Isaac already liked him, and his friendship with Boyd has moved from casual stoicism to open camaraderie, but Allison and Nurse McCall now dote on him, while Stiles' father slaps him on the back and calls him "son". He laughs now, openly and freely, and his smile...Stiles could spend a lot of time watching Derek smile; he's begun a small catalog in his head to keep track of the smiles, and of exactly how to provoke each one.

And when Derek is with him... Derek is more than Stiles had ever dreamed of. He hadn't known what it could be like, not really, hadn't considered- most of the couples around him have either been together since childhood and/or are very private, so for all that he knows that Erica and Boyd are head over heels for each other, or that the Whittemores share a strong mutual respect, he hasn't had the sort of up close and personal exposure to it that he might have had if his mom had lived longer, or if Scott's dad hadn't fucked off for parts unknown. It's heady, and scary, and a complete power trip- Derek likes Stiles, he thinks Stiles is funny, he waits for Stiles, he helps Stiles, he actively wants to spend time with Stiles, seeks him out and draws him in. He admires Stiles and respects him as a colleague, he considers Stiles his closest friend, and whenever no one is around, he spends minutes hours days kissing Stiles with deep drugging kisses, and putting his hands everywhere he can possibly reach.

Derek is the best thing that's ever happened to him, and Stiles will do anything for him, anything to protect him, anything to give him the best that Stiles can give him, no matter what that takes.

It's amazing, and incredible, and overwhelming, and wonderful, and unbelievable, and maybe that's the crux of it, because it's not that Stiles doesn't trust or believe that Derek is anything but completely sincere, it's just that things don't work like this in Stiles' experience- he doesn't have anything he hasn't had to work incredibly hard for, and even when he's done that, sometimes it hasn't been enough, and so to have the most wonderful thing in his life come from out of nowhere?...Stiles is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

In the meantime, though, he's going to milk this for all it's worth, and so they're halfway through a practice session and only just getting started on a good solid make-out session when Stiles sees a movement at the edge of the tent, a quick flash of a face through the opening. He freezes, and Derek mouths at his neck in question. Stiles shakes his head, and turns back to rub his face up against Derek's cheek and slip a hand under his practice shirt, nibbling on his ear as he goes. He's not sure who he saw, but it doesn't really matter- it's not like there's anyone left who hasn't figured out what's going on between them. They may not be to the holding hands in public stage, but they're an incredibly open secret.

It happens again, though, just as Stiles is dismounting from a balance on Derek's outstretched legs, that same quick flash of a face at the tent flap, and there's a churn in his gut as he thinks he might be able to place it. He flicks a glance at Derek, who hasn't noticed. If he's going to head her off at the pass, keep her away from Derek, he has to go now.

"Hey, wait here for a sec, I thought I saw someone looking for me."

Derek frowns. "I'll come with you."

"No, no, you go ahead and cool down. I'm pretty sure it was just Erica with a question, I'll be right back." Derek's face is pulling down into a scowl, and Stiles rolls his eyes. “Look, it's the middle of the day. I promise I won't go two feet from the flap; if it's not Erica, I will come right back, ok?” He pushes Derek gently down to the floor and kisses him briefly, then again not so briefly, then pulls himself away and slips out of the tent.

\--

She catches him before he's rounded the corner, and he's a little scared but not at all surprised by the length of chilly steel he can feel pressed against his side. They're in the space between the training tent and the big top, and unless someone comes walking directly between the tents, there's no way that anyone will see them. Still, he thinks, if she wanted to kill him, he wouldn't be alive now- she's playing a game, and he may as well see what he can learn.

"Well, if it isn't my pretty little circus boy!" Her voice is a low purr from behind him, and he can feel goosebumps rising up and down his arms. "Looks like you were too pretty for me after all, and now you've found yourself a catch, huh? Little Derek Hale's got his filthy mouth all over you, boy, and you let him put his hands down your pants.” Her hand is sliding under his shirt, her nails pointed against his skin. “You must've been born to this, to be this depraved. It's in your blood, your bones, this sin's so deep in you even I couldn't burn it out.” She licks at the side of Stiles' neck and he suppresses a shiver, making her giggle in his ear.

"Oh, Stiles." She drops the knife from his ribs so that she can circle around to face him, but keeps it low and aimed at his vulnerable belly as she smiles brightly at him, her teeth white and even. "You're so naive. I can see it in your face, you think he actually loves you." He can't quite suppress the flinch at her words, and she throws her blonde head back and laughs openly, gleefully. "Oh, you _do_ , you really do! Oh, honey. Let me tell you a little something about Derek Hale." She leans in, wrapping a cold hand around the back of his neck and pulling his head down so she can whisper in his ear. "See, I knew Derek Hale back east. _Knew_ him" She giggles again, and it's disturbingly girly for a woman her age, with just a hint of mania that makes Stiles swallow hard. "I knew him well, and honey, you aren't ever going to be enough to satisfy him. I know, oh, I _know_ you think you are. I know you think that your love is the first love that ever was in the whole wide world." Her voice drops to a crooning sing-song, and Stiles feels hypnotized, wants to pull away, but can't, can't do anything but stand frozen and let her pour words into his ear. "He wants things you can never give him." She pulls back, pulling her face into a delicately contrived expression of pity before leaning back in and looping a companionable arm around his shoulder. "He wants a family. A wife. Babies. A boy like that from a big old family? He's the last Hale, you know- he wants to rebuild. Last of legacy needs a good, solid wife to fill up _again_ and _again_ and _again_." She punctuates her words with thrusts of her hip against his thigh, and Stiles feels dirty suddenly, can see it too easily in his mind, Derek's dark head bent over some plump blonde woman's breasts, his mouth on her rounding belly, his hand between her legs. Or maybe she's dark and lean, bearing him children that look like his dead brothers and sisters and cousins.

"You're wrong." He pushes her off. "You're _wrong_." He's flustered, embarrassed, can't think with her perfume in his nose, the image in his head of a laughing Derek holding a baby up in the air. He believes the way that Derek looks at him, he does, but he's seen Derek's face when he says the name _Laura_ , can't help but remember the catch in his voice when he talks about Mary and Constance.

"Oh, honey," she pouts at him, pats his cheek. "I didn't mean to make you sad. I'm trying to help you. You need to break it off now, before it hurts too much. He may like you, and why wouldn't he? You're pretty, you're young, you're convenient. But he's going to break your heart." She shrugs, smiles at him and suddenly she's just Allison's pretty aunt, her face sweet and clear. "Protect yourself, kiddo. No shame in that. Step back from Derek, and you can both get on with your lives."

She turns, cocking her head and listening for a moment. "That's my cue to go." She smiles again, showing all her teeth. "I know you won't tell anyone I was here. You wouldn't want anything bad to happen. You're a good kid." She leans up, kisses his cheek, and then she's gone.

\--

Stiles makes his way back into the tent, his mind spinning frantically. He can see Derek from the tent opening, his back to Stiles as he pulls himself up and down on the low trapeze, swinging his legs back and forth as he gauges his balance against the motion. He's back-lit and beautiful, all long lines and perfect form, and Stiles' heart is in his throat at the sight of him, his chest empty and cold at the thought of his absence. The thing is, though, that he can see it- he's seen the photo of the Hale Pack, the stamp of blood family on their face, the shared laughter in their eyes. He's seen it with how Derek bumps shoulders with Boyd, how he plays with the little kids who come to watch the show, the way his face lights up when Erica teases him and he yanks her braid in retaliation.

She's a liar, and crazy, he knows she is. She's after Derek, for some reason that Stiles can't fathom- jilted love gone awry doesn't seem to cover it, but he can't really say for sure. He doesn't trust her for an inch, doesn't think for a second that she's concerned about him or his little squishy human heart, but...that doesn't make her wrong about Derek. You can start with a false premise, and end with a true result, and he just can't shake the image of that Derek from the photo, surrounded by a family that was his whole world.

He watches Derek as he moves through his forms, the sweat gleaming on his back, watches the phantom children play at his feet, the ghostly shape of a smiling wife come to kiss his cheek and wipe his brow. He blinks, shakes his head, and it's just Derek again, just Derek, and just Stiles, and then just Derek again as Stiles turns and silently slips away.

\--

It's two in the afternoon, but he goes home, surprises his father when he walks through the door.

"You ok, kid?" His father squints at him, and Stiles just shakes his head, there's no use pretending, and besides, he's not ok, he's not ok at all.

"I don't feel good. Thought I'd go lie down."

His father nods, beckons him over so he can lay a hand on Stiles' forehead.

"You don't feel too warm, but you look pretty pale. Go take a nap, I'll check on you in a while."

Stiles nods, pulls himself unwillingly from his father's touch, then hesitates before walking down the hall.

"Dad? If anyone comes by?" His father looks up from the paper again, eyebrows questioning. "I don't...I just want to be left alone."

His father starts to open his mouth, his face pulling in suspicion, but Stiles pulls himself away and down the hallway before he gets any words out, and mercifully he lets it go. Stiles knows he'll hear about it later, but right now he is alone, alone and undisturbed, and so he lets himself curl to the floor and fall apart.


	5. Chapter Five (I fell into a burning ring of fire)

Worry is nagging at him, dogging his heels, and even though it's only been 24 hours since Stiles left him there, alone in the tent, he can't shake the feeling that something's gone terribly wrong.

He'd waited for Stiles to come back. Waited in the tent for ten, twenty, thirty minutes. Finally he figured that Erica or whoever had absconded with Stiles indefinitely, so he'd packed up his things and gone home, changing his clothes and cooling off. He'd waited a little while for the distinctive sound of Stiles' footsteps bounding up his steps, but they never came.

Stiles hadn't been at dinner, either, so he'd gone to sit by Stilinski Sr, who'd been friendly enough. He'd even volunteered the information that Stiles had come home sick, and gone to bed, where he apparently still was. Stilinski was going to take him a plate.

He helps Stiles' father gather some food for him, then goes home. He undresses, lies in his bed, and waits for sleep to come, alone and lonely in the dark.

\--

He wakes up the next morning in a slightly better mood, determined to check on Stiles and find out what's wrong. It seems off to him that Stiles had just left, even if he was feeling ill- why hadn't he said something? He dresses, washes, pulls on his coat, and heads next door to the Stilinskis'.

Stilinski Sr opens the door to his knock, and frowns at seeing him, which Derek thinks is maybe not the best sign. He steps out onto the stoop, pulling the door shut behind him, and settles down on the top step, watching Derek fidget with his hands in his pockets.

"Son..." Stilinski pins him with a serious look, and Derek feels the bottom of his stomach fall to somewhere near his knees. "What happened yesterday between you and Stiles?"

Derek draws in a shaky breath. "Nothing, sir. We were practicing, and then he went to talk to someone, Erica, I think, and then he just...never came back." Derek looks at his hands, shoves them back into his pockets. "I waited for him, and he didn't show."

Stilinski is frowning pensively, rubbing his chin with his fingers as he thinks.

"He came home, told me he didn't feel well. Looked like hell, but didn't actually say he was sick." He shakes his head, sighs. "Said he didn't want to be disturbed, then said it again this morning." He raises his head, looks Derek in the eyes. "I asked about you, if he wanted me to let you in. He said no, he didn't want you to see him." Derek feels like he might throw up, but he fights it down, blanks his face carefully. Stilinski shakes his head. "I should have known. I thought he just meant he didn't want you seeing him sick, but he's always careful with his words when he's trying to pull something over on me." He reaches out, claps Derek on the shoulder. "Never have a clever kid, son, they're more trouble than they're worth."

Derek nods numbly, vague memories of his sister Cora dancing at the edges of his mind. He feels...he feels chilled all the way through, but can't manage to shiver. Something must be showing on his face despite his best efforts, because Stilinski reaches out again, rests his hand on Derek's shoulder for a minute, his face warm and sympathetic.

"Don't worry. We'll get to the bottom of this. He's just got some fool idea in his head, and he's not talking to anyone about it. Give it a day or two, and everything will be just how it was."

Derek nods, because it's what society dictates as a modicum of good grace, then watches as Stilinski lets himself back in the house, shutting the door firmly behind him.

He wants to sit on the steps and wait, for however long it takes, but he makes himself leave, change into his practice gear, and go to the tents.

\--

He moves through the day in a haze, nodding when people ask him questions, smiling when people smile, answering that Stiles isn't feeling well when someone inevitably notices that he's alone again. By the time the sun is setting, he knows that he's done all of the things that he does in a day, but he can't remember a single one of them. All he can think of is Stiles, and how he's not there.

He goes back to his house, not looking at the lights in his neighbors' windows, and lets himself in with his key, shutting the door behind him as he reaches for the lamp to light.

He knows he's not alone before he turns around, can feel it in the prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck, but when he turns to face the intruder, she's the last person he would have imagined.

She's sitting on his bed, her skirts arranged perfectly around her, her blond hair coiffed just so, one gently curling tendril sliding down her cheek. She looks just like she did the last day he saw her in Boston nearly seven years ago, and Derek feels like maybe he's having a heart attack, can't stop himself from looking around the room in search of other ghosts.

"Derek, darling. Didn't expect to see me?" She simpers, pouts gently, and he remembers her so incredibly well, remembers kissing that petulant mouth, sinking his fingers into that thick honey-colored hair. "I know we parted ways back east, but I've been traveling.” She twirls a strand of hair around her finger, rubs it across her cheek. “Heard a rumor you were in the area. Thought I'd come see you again, just for old time's sake."

She's up and moving now, her skirts swinging appealingly around her hips as she saunters toward him, looking up at him as she tilts her head to the side. "Surely you haven't _forgotten_ me?" She's close enough now to touch, rubs her hands up and down his shirt front while he stands still in absolute shock. "I heard what happened to your family," she clucks her tongue, " _such_ a pity."

His brain feels like it's moving through molasses, pieces falling together with agonizing slowness. " _Kate_..." he breathes it out in horror, and it's not truly till the sound hits his ears that the last piece falls into place, and he finally believes, he _knows_ with complete certainty who, exactly, is standing in front of him.

She smirks. "See? I knew you still had a brain buried under all that muscle. After all," she's got a hand up under his collar now, and he grabs her wrists, delicate but strong in his grip, "we spent so much time together those couple of months in Boston. We got to know each other pretty well. Well.” She laughs, throwing her head back. “I got to know you pretty well, Derek Hale. You never even knew my full name.” She smiles again, running a hand over his stomach. “Remember, Derek?" Her breath is close into his ear, and he feels like he's drowning in her perfume, sucked under in the scent of lilies and musk, "remember how you took me out, over and over again? Took me to the seaside, to the carousel. You just wanted to show me a good time, then lift my skirts." She laughs, a girlish peal of sound that he's not sure he'll ever get out of his brain. "You were such an earnest little boy, such a _good_ little boy who just wanted to make his daddy angry." She shivers against him, licking at his throat. "You sure did put that anger to good use, though, Derek. I could feel it when you were fucking me, when you would throw me down and plow into me, and I _loved_ it, I loved how..." she bites at his throat, and he throws her away from him in disgust, only to have her catch herself and start to laugh, "how _impulsive_ you were."

It all makes sense now, and Derek can't decide if he wants to throw up or roar or rip Kate to shreds; the conflicting desires have him an immobile target in the middle of the room, breathing hard through his mouth as she circles. His fists are opening and closing in impotent rage, his mind a spinning knot of belated realizations.

"Kate _Argent_." His voice sounds foreign to him, and the roaring in his ears can't be a good thing, but he doesn't care, can't care, because he didn't know, _he didn't know_ , didn't know that he was the one responsible for his family's ruin, that it was his own childish rebellion that led to their slaughter.

"Oh, honey, did you really only just figure that one out?" She laughs again, clapping her hands. "This is even better than I expected, I really thought you or that _cunt_ of a sister of yours had figured it out by now. Or maybe she did, and just felt too sorry for you to tell you." She nods determinedly. "Yes, I like that. Stupid Laura, protecting her baby brother to the last." She looks around her speculatively, her hands running lightly over his possessions as she moves, imprinting herself into his space. "Where is she, anyway? I haven't seen her anywhere. Did she cast you aside? Repent, and go on to lead a better life?"

He grits his teeth, struggling to pull enough air into his chest.

"Dead."

"Derek, _baby_. You really _are_ all alone, aren't you?" If she were anyone else, he might have a chance of believing that was pity in her eyes instead of glee, but it's not, and he can't. "Even that little pup of yours who was following you around, he's gone and left you too."

He didn't think he could get angrier. He was wrong.

" _What have you done to Stiles."_

"I didn't do anything to him. We had a little chat, girl to girl." She smiles again, and Derek doesn't know what he's done to deserve this, what in his short existence ever justified the loss of everyone and everything he's known and loved. "We don't want you getting too attached, you see. It's not safe." She flings up her hands and opens her mouth in a parody of shock and horror. "Why, anything could happen!"

Somehow it's the thought of her with Stiles, with her hands on him, her mouth whispering poison into his perfect ear that breaks Derek free. He surges forward, reaching for her, but is pulled up short by the click of the revolver in her hand.

"Ah ah ah, Derek. You can't possibly think I'd be foolish enough to let myself be caught by you." She chuckles, her eyes wild, but she's backing toward the door, and all he can think at the moment is that he wants her out, wants her gone. "Don't worry sweetie, you won't have to miss me for long. I'll come back for you!"

She blows him a kiss as she goes.

\--

He can see that the lamps are lit at the Stilinski cabin, a beacon in the darkness that reels him in, aching and sore. He feels unmoored, adrift in a sea of broken assumptions and a world gone askew. Derek steps toward the cabin, his breath puffing in the frozen air- Kate's delivered her message and is surely long gone, but Stilinski needs to know.

He has a foot raised to climb the steps, hand reaching to fling open the door, when he catches the sound of voices. They're a murmur at first, but as his hand touches the knob, they rise noticeably and he pauses.

"Leave it _alone_ , Scott."

"No way, Stiles. I don't know what you're playing at, but you're being a damn fool." Scott sounds exasperated, but also concerned. "I haven't seen you like this in years, man. What's eating you?"

"Nothing." Stiles' voice is cracked and tired, loud with irritation but so far from normal that Derek hurts. "I'm not... _nothing_."

"Bullshit." Scott can be impressively obstinate, and it seems like he's decided to go all out this time. "What gives?"

Derek hears the scrape of a chair, the thud of a body falling into it. He can picture Stiles slumped over the table, elbows on the wood, face in his hands.

"Did Derek say something shitty to you?" Scott's voice is gentler, coaxing, then hardens. "Did Derek hurt you?"

"No, it's nothing fucking _Derek_ did, for God's sake, it's..." Stiles cuts himself off abruptly. "It's..." He sounds agitated, and Derek's heart aches for him.

The thing about Scott is that he's only selectively obtuse, and he's known Stiles for a long time.

"It's something you did to Derek." Scott's voice is unbelievably gentle, and Derek can hear the scrape of another chair as Scott settles down to talk.

"I walked out on him. I have to...I have to break it off."

Stiles' voice is so quiet that Derek can barely make it out, but he can hear Scott's intake of breath.

"Oh, Stiles." Scott's voice is fighting between amused, incredulous, and compassionate- it's unclear which is going to come out on top. "Are you _blind_? You think he's just playing with you? Sweet baby Jesus, Stiles, he thinks the sun rises and falls out of your leotarded ass."

"I know he wants me. _Now_." Stiles sounds miserable, and Derek pulls his hand back from where he's reached out to touch the wall. He needs to go, needs to find Stilinski, but he can't pull himself away. "But I'm not what's best for him. I can't give him what he'll want in the long run."

"Are you nuts? Come on, Stiles, you're smarter than this. Trust me-" Scott sounds smug now, like he's puffed his chest out and smiled, "I know what a man looks like when he's smitten; I see it every morning in the mirror. And Derek? Has been in love with you longer than even he knows."

"It doesn't matter." He knows the look that Stiles must have on his face; his jaw set, his chin raised. "I can't do that to him." His voice rises, and Derek can see him in his mind's eye, gesturing animatedly as his eyes spark with feeling. "Do you have any idea how much he loved his family? His _family_ ," Stiles' voice catches, "who are now all dead, Scott, murdered by _Hunters_ , in case you didn't know. He had brothers, and sisters, and cousins- he loves little kids, and relatives, and he's the only one left." Stiles pauses again, and Derek waits with his heart in his throat for him to continue. "How can I possibly ask him to give up the possibility of another Hale Pack, of a wife, and kids, and maybe a dozen in-laws? How could I be that selfish? I can't ask him to do that, Scott, I can't." Stiles' voice drops, and Scott remains silent. "You've seen how it is for Boyd and Erica- they can't go _anywhere_ together. They're fine with us, but that's it- they can't marry, any children they have will be illegitimate. I can't put that on Derek." Stiles sighs, his voice becoming nearly inaudible again, and Derek strains to hear. "All I can offer is me and my Dad, and a life of hiding behind tent walls. I love him too much to do that to him."

"But Stiles, if he loves you too..."

"If he loves me too, _what_? He'll give up all of his dreams to be with me? He'll forswear any hope of turning his life back to what it was, to how it was supposed to be, just for me? It doesn't work like that, Scott, not in real life." Stiles sounds defeated, and Derek's chest aches. “He cares about me, I know. But he'll get over me, he will. And it will be for the best.”

"It can work that way if you let it." Scott has his determined tone on again, "This is _ridiculous_ , Stiles, you are throwing away a man who loves you for...what? Some idea of what might be best for him? I know you're smarter than this. You don't have the right to make these decisions for him, to decide what he wants without even asking."

"Go away, Scott. Go back to Allison."

Scott's footsteps sound as he walks toward the door. "You need to give him the choice, Stiles. Don't throw it away on a _what if_. If you really love him, if you want to be together..."

Stiles gives a humorless laugh. "You've seen me, Scott. I loved Lydia unquestioningly from the age of 8 till I was 16, without a scrap of encouragement. Imagine what I'll be like if someone ever loves me back."

"Tell him. Let him choose. You owe him that much." Scott's voice is final, and then the door is swinging open, and Derek has to jump back into the shadows to avoid being seen. Scott pulls the door behind him, and tromps down the steps, turning unfailingly to where Derek is lurking next to the house. He raises an eyebrow, tips his head meaningfully at the door.

Derek nods. Scott's message is sound.

Go, and talk to Stiles.

\--

He takes a deep breath, and opens the door. Stiles is still seated at the table, his back to Derek, head in his hands.

"Go _away_ , Scott."

Derek crosses the room in three strides and finds himself on his knees next to Stiles, wrapping his arms around Stiles' middle. He's got his face shoved into the front of Stiles' shirt and is breathing raggedly, subsumed in the scent and heat of him.

"Derek...what...?"

Stiles' arms come down around him, holding him in place, and he can hear the stuttering heave of Stiles' heart in his chest. Stiles crumples instantly and clings to him, bringing his face down to rub agitatedly across the top of Derek's head, an unconscious attempt at self-soothing.

They stay like this for a moment, for a small eternity. Derek is absorbed, consumed by the life he can feel pulsing just beneath Stiles' skin, skin he's touched, tasted, beheld. Seeing Kate has made him feel like that angry 16 year old, drunk on lust and anger, then broken and hollowed out. He can almost feel the ghosts of his family around him, and the knowledge that it was _Kate_ who did that to them, that she had put her hands on _Stiles_ , is making him crazy. He wants to touch Stiles all over, to wrap him entirely in his own self, to reassure them both that he's safe, that he's still here.

Stiles clutches at him, his fingers pulling at Derek's skin, and something deep inside of him settles at the thought that Stiles has missed him, needs him, needs this, too.

"Derek...god, _Derek_..." Stiles' voice is all rough edges and helplessness, but he draws himself up and settles his hands gently on Derek's shoulders, pushing him out and away. "Derek, we can't do this."

Derek fights down a pulse of anger as he leans back on his heels. It's not Stiles' fault, he knows that. He just has to bleed out the toxins that Kate pressed into him, make room for healing.

"Stiles, I know she got to you."

"Just because she's crazy doesn't make her wrong."

" _Yes_ , Stiles, it does." He feels the anger returning, a cold fury at Kate, and a hotter anger at the loss of this one good thing he's allowed himself to have. "That's _exactly_ what it means."

"You think I haven't _thought_ about this?" Stiles explodes in a sudden burst of energy, hands flying wide as his mouth opens in a shout. "Christ, you think I _want_ to walk away from you? This is the hardest thing I've ever done!"

"Then why the _hell_ are you doing it?!" Derek's picked himself up off the floor and finds himself standing, leaning into Stiles' space. He forces himself upright, pushes down the anger, continues more calmly. "What did she say to you? Why are you doing this?"

Stiles shoots him a dirty look. "You think I'm just parroting whatever she says. I'm not stupid." He folds his arms, still glaring. "She's right, but for the wrong reasons."

" _Stiles_. What. Did. She. Say."

Stiles slumps, rubs his face with his hands. The circles under his eyes are deep and severe, and Derek knows he's had trouble sleeping since he was taken, knows seeing Kate again must have made it so much worse. He stops his hand as it reaches out.

"She said that I should back off before I get hurt. That someday you're going to find a wife, and have a family, and that it'll just hurt more then."

"And you _believe_ that?" He can't keep the incredulity out of his voice.

" _No_ , dumbass." Stiles looks mulishly at the floor, choosing his words carefully. "Like I said, she's right, but for the wrong reasons."

"You think I would leave you."

" _No_!" Stiles flings up his hands. "No, I think you _wouldn't_ , and that's the problem. What you had, Derek...it was your whole world. And it was ripped away from you."

"By her." The words are out before he can help it, and his stomach clutches as all the blood drains from Stiles' face.

"Oh _god_."

Derek can't find anything else to say, so he waits, watches Stiles think it through, pull himself forcibly back to the train of thought at hand.

"Derek." His voice is so soft, so tender that Derek wants to weep with it, bites his tongue instead. "Derek, you deserve more than me, more than I can give you. I don't doubt for a second that you'd stay with me if I asked you to, that's who you are. But I can't ask that of you. I can't give you the family you lost, I can't help you rebuild those ties." Derek has moved unconsciously closer to him, and Stiles raises his eyes hopelessly to Derek's face, amber irises wide and damp at the corners. "It's just me and my dad here, and that's all there'll ever be here for you. I can't keep you, knowing you want more, knowing you could find it somewhere else." He looks down again, swallowing hard. “You have a chance for so much more. I can't give you what you need, but I can give you the chance to have it.”

Stiles' breath shudders out of him, and somehow Derek's on his knees again, one hand pressing into Stiles' knee, the other clutching the back of the chair.

"Stiles. Whatever Kate said to you, it's wrong."

"She knew you."

"No, Stiles. She _used_ me." He hears the wood of the chair creak in protest, and loosens his grip. "She used me to kill my family, and now she's using my history to hurt us both." His hand is somehow on Stiles' face, thumb stroking the edge of his cheek. "What about what _I_ want?"

"What do you want, Derek?" It's little more than a whisper, Stiles' eyes closed as Derek's thumb sweeps back and forth.

"You."

"No, Derek..." Stiles' head is shaking back and forth, so Derek brings his hands up to still it.

"Listen to me. My family is dead, there is nothing I can do to change that. But I also can't replace them. I wouldn't _want_ to even if I could, it wouldn't be the same." He pauses, waits. "When your mother died, could you replace her?" Stiles freezes, every muscle going still, then shakes his head slowly. "Would you even have tried?"

"...no."

"You are enough." Stiles bites his lip and opens his eyes, his hands coming up to grasp at Derek's wrists where they frame his face. " _You_ are enough for me, Stiles."

The look in Stiles' eyes breaks Derek's heart, but he nods, once, shakily, and leans in to press their foreheads together, eyes dropping closed. The silence settles in around them, blanketing them in stillness as they breathe together.

"We have to tell my dad about Kate."

Derek nods, his hand coming up to pull Stiles' head down to his shoulder, fingers rubbing into the line of hair that runs up to his skull.

"Yeah." He breathes out, breathes in again. "Yeah. Let's go."

–

“I think she's after me, specifically, sir.”

It's hard to admit, leaves him with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Everyone's in danger because of him. Again.

This time, though, he knows, and he can do something about it.

Deaton is frowning from behind his desk, his fingers folded on top of the papers in front of him.

“You say she as good as admitted to the Morrell fire?”

Deaton's sisters, Derek thinks, young and lithe and beautiful. He remembers them well. They'd survived, but had been injured- he doesn't know what happened to them in the end.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why is she after you, Derek?” Stilinski has his arms folded, leaning against one of the cabinets on the far wall. He's mostly watching Stiles fidget in his seat next to Derek, but he's turned his gaze to Derek for the moment.

Derek sighs, pushes a hand through his hair.

“We were...together. For a few months. Before the fire. I had _no idea._..” he raises his gaze to the horrified looks in front of him, drops it again, “... _no_ idea who she really was. I just thought she was some pretty girl.” He drops his head into his hands and breathes deeply for a moment, the silence around him thick and waiting. “I never put it together. Why would I? We knew about Gerard Argent, sure, but not much about his family. Why would I think that my pretty, vapid girlfriend would have anything to do with the fire that burned my whole family alive?”

“Laura and I laid low immediately afterward, for a couple weeks. Then we left town.” Stiles' hand snakes onto his leg, and he reaches down to grip it like a lifeline, anchoring himself. “I was out with Kate that afternoon, but we'd fought, and I'd left her to go back to the circus. But then I didn't go straight back, I wandered around being angry instead, thinking of the fights I was having with my father, the fight I'd just had with Kate. I can only assume that she thought I died in the fire with everyone else, and considered that to be the end of it. Then when they moved out here, and Allison joined us, she must have seen me or heard my name.”

Deaton's face is as grave as he's ever seen it, the lines of concern drawing his mouth down. Stiles' grip on his hand is too tight, but Derek doesn't care, grasping back as hard as he can.

“What does she want with you now?”

“She's crazy, Dad. Completely and absolutely bonkers. She's obsessed with him.”

“Didn't ask you, Stiles.” Stilinski shoots him a quelling glare, but Stiles just stares back stubbornly, his jaw jutting out in defiance. “Derek? Do you know what she wants?”

Derek rubs a hand over his face, feeling a tension headache starting behind his eyes.

“Not really, sir. Stiles is right- she's a lunatic. I think I'm just a loose end? She thought the Morrell fire was a _fait accompli_ , but now she's discovered a piece that wasn't tied up?” He shakes his head. “It's my best guess. She's obsessed, wants to finish the job.”

Stilinski looks at Deaton, the concern plain on his face. Deaton nods slowly.

“Right. She's got to be stopped.” He settles his hands palms down in front of him. “Derek, you're in the most danger, so I don't want you to spend a single minute alone from now on. Bunk with the Stilinskis, and have someone with you wherever you go.” Derek nods, and Deaton continues. “Allison is also potentially still in danger. John, I'd appreciate it if you'd get Scott and Danny to trade off staying with her at the Martins' at all times.”

“However. The show must go on. We cannot simply cancel our performances and hide from the Argents; that kind of a disruption is neither desirable, nor sustainable. We will increase our security to the full extent possible, and then we must wait for her to make her move.”

“She will, sir.”

Deaton nods, never breaking eye contact.

“Yes, Derek. She will.”

\--

All is quiet for a week. The tension in the camp is palpable, a shivering electric thing that frizzles through everyone and leaves them exhausted and snappish. It's wearing on all of them, but the shows go on as planned, every evening and twice on the weekends.

Derek's standing in the wings when he hears the sudden gasp from the audience. It's a normal enough reaction; it's the end of Allison's act, and she's been rehearsing a new trick with Lydia that really brings the house down. Derek's seen it in rehearsal, and it is pretty impressive- she's flexible enough to be an acrobat, and strong, and she's taught herself to stand on her hands and shoot her bow and arrow with her feet, splitting the apple on Lydia's head into clean halves. It's not something this audience has ever seen, and they love it, if the wild applause is anything to go by.

He pokes his head out beyond the curtain in time to see Lydia exit stage left to the animal pens, where Jackson will be waiting to help her get ready for her own act. At the other end of the ring he can see Stiles waiting on his platform, high above the packed dirt floor, his red jacket glowing in the dark of the tent roof. Isaac is scampering around, distracting the audience as the twins help set up and tie off the net below the flying rig. Stiles is up next, and Derek wishes he could watch, but he has to help break down and store Allison's equipment, then get Scott's set ready for when he's up after Stiles. Stiles isn't looking in his direction, but Derek lets himself smile anyway, not caring who can see his face. He's still smiling as Allison brushes past him into the wings, squeezing affectionately at his arm as she passes.

She's got her back to Derek, peeling off her leather bracer, when there's a sudden flash of movement from behind. Derek turns too slowly, dropping the curtain back into position as he spins around in time to see Kate settle a knife at her niece's throat, the narrow blade shining and deadly in the backstage shadows. Allison kicks and squirms, struggling for all she's worth, but her aunt's grip is stronger- Allison takes a deep breath, her eyes widening as the sharp point of the knife pricks her skin and lets a single drop of blood bloom.

Derek is frozen, his hands reaching out to grab Allison back, even as he knows that one wrong move will hurt her, one misstep will end with the body of one more dark-haired girl dead for his folly. Kate's laughing face is all he can see, filling up his field of vision with her wicked smile, the light in her eyes the most evil thing he's ever seen. The roaring in his ears is deafening, drowning out the sounds of the crowd, the music of Isaac's act.

"Derek, sweetheart," Kate's smile is terrifying in its mania, glittering as she moves steadily toward the exit, pulling Allison with her, "such a surprise to see you again!" She giggles, "We have to stop meeting like this!"

"Stop, Kate," he reaches his hands out, helpless to do anything but watch the line of red blooming on Allison's neck. Allison's eyes are wide and terrified, but her mouth is tightly determined, and he can see her calculating the best move to get away without injury. "Don't do this. I'll do whatever you want. Take me instead."

"No, _Derek_ \- she's got something else planned, this is the distraction!" Allison's shout is loud, and Derek mentally applauds her, hoping desperately that someone is nearby, that someone might have heard.

"Such a clever girl, isn't she?" Kate wrenches Allison's head back, locking her arms behind her and forcing her to stagger. "But of course, she's right." Kate shrugs. "She's a traitor; I'd leave her here with the rest of you. I'd leave Chris, too, that code-loving pansy. But, Father wants her back, so back we go!"

Derek can feel his brain struggling through the adrenaline fog, grasping for any way to dissuade her, any way to make this end even a little bit better, and suddenly realizes the fog is not quite so metaphorical as he registers the sounds of shouts coming from the tent and the heavy scent of smoke in the air.

"Derek! Don't worry about me. "Allison's eyes are big, but her face is determined. " _Stiles_ , go get Stiles!"

Stiles. Stiles on the platform, ready for his act. Stiles, stranded in the air as the tent burns around him.

Kate's laughter rings in his ears as he turns and flings himself through the tent flap into the Big Top.

\--

It's not quite chaos in the tent, but it's definitely working its way up to it. Deaton is on the center pedestal with his megaphone, directing the crowds to the exits, where Boyd and Isaac and the twins are holding the flaps wide. People are hurrying, and there's some shoving, but Deaton's calm voice seems to be holding the line between hurried evacuation and panicked stampede. The tent is filling with smoke from the straw on the floor, thick and acrid, but the walls don't seem to be catching yet, which buys him some time.

Derek casts his eyes frantically around, searching through the rising haze for that familiar rumpled head. He can't see the top of the platform from where he is, and the smoke is thickening overhead. Stiles should have smelled it, should have come down. He'd know the shape of Stiles' movements anywhere, but he's nowhere to be found in the teeming crowd. There's a tent pole just a few feet to his right, so he flings himself into the flow of the exodus, allowing the crowd to pull him along. When he fetches up against the pole he lets the mass of people split around him, and shimmies up it, getting himself high enough to squint across the tent and the press of people trying to get out. He can see Scott with Jackson opening the metal drop-gates to usher the horses and lions out of their tent-adjacent holding pens and get them running through the chutes back to the barns, far enough from the tent that they'll be safe. The twins are busy holding the far exit open, he can see their matching dirty blond heads through the thickening gloom, and he's already seen Isaac and Boyd holding the opening behind him.

Where is Stiles?

It's not till he notices the flames licking across the nets that he glances upward, just to check, and what he sees freezes him where he clings, his heart stilling in his chest. The net is burning, has already fallen loose from one side of its moorings. Burning also is the base of the ladder to the platform; it must've caught from the net itself, but Derek can see the flames licking at the dry painted wood, climbing upward.

His nerveless hands drop from the pole, and he's on the floor before he realizes it, aiming his bulk against the flow of the crowd, shoving his way past confused and angry spectators. As he gets closer he can see the flames growing, can make out through the gloom the shape of the crouched figure atop the platform.

\--

 _"Derek, come on, it's fine!" Stiles is laughing at him from where he hangs upside down, arms folded across his bare chest. "You're_ going _to drop me, it's going to happen. The sooner we do it, the sooner you can start_ not _dropping me!"_

_Derek glares at him from the top of the catcher's platform, scowling at Stiles' irrepressible grin, his easy confidence and grace. Derek's got the bar in his hands, ready to swing out over the net. He's practiced this part over and over on the low trapeze- swinging out, hauling himself up onto the bar, and then slipping down into catching position, legs secured and arms down. It's just... they've never done this quite so high in the air..._

_Stiles rolls his eyes and shakes his head, then unhooks his legs and drops like a stone, making Derek gasp and pale where he stands. Stiles just laughs and laughs, bouncing in the net below before clambering out and back up the ladder to hook his bar and swing out again._

_"C'mon, Derek. It's what the net is_ for _."_

_Derek scowls again, but leans out and drops, forcing himself to do it before he can think, letting the momentum pull him to the apex of his swing before he flips himself up onto the bar and around, reaching the far end of his arc before he drops upside down, locking his feet into the ropes and letting his hands swing free._

_It's different up here on the full rigging- the arc is much bigger, for one thing, and he doesn't need to unconsciously keep himself restrained for fear of hitting the smaller practice tent's walls or floor. He's not entirely sure how he feels about the wind rushing past his face, or the blur of the net feet below his head, so he forces his focus to narrow._ Stiles _._

_"We're going to start with just a simple one, ok? I'm just going to swing out, and you're going to grab me, and hang on." Stiles' grin is possibly even more infectious upside down, and Derek wants to bite the corners of his mouth until it makes a different shape altogether, but he just nods, opening and closing his hands._

_Stiles leaps off the platform, and Derek will never get tired of watching him, the exuberance that's written in every line of his body, the precise energy that he radiates. He flies like breathing, like fish swim, and Derek hasn't gotten to see him do this much, is momentarily sad that he can't just watch, because Stiles was born for this._

_"Ready?"_

_Derek kicks his body higher, watching the inevitable mathematics of his intersection with Stiles' body, holding his hands out stretched until they clasp. The grip is solid, Stiles' long, strong fingers closing around the muscle of Derek's forearms as his own blunt digits dig into the firm arms beneath their touch. Stiles is laughing even as his legs fall away from his swing, his face lit up as he raises it to Derek. The look in his eyes before he drops to the net warms the dark hidden spaces of the heart Derek didn't realize he still had._

\--

He's halfway up the ladder to the catching platform before he can even think of a plan- all he knows is that he has to somehow, _somehow_ get to Stiles. The net is fully in flames now, the smoke rising into the top of the tent and making his eyes water, his nose run. There's a moment of sheer panic when he sees the flying platform fall away, pieces of it burning as it goes, but then he catches the motion of the swing in front of him, the figure hanging in mid-air.

"Stiles," he shouts, the smoke sliding into his lungs and making him cough, " _Stiles_!"

The figure turns to face him, begins pumping its legs, then moves into the drop position.

There's no time for fear, no time for nerves. No time for images of Claudia Stilinski, her neck broken in a fall, no time for memories of his family, dying in a sea of flames. There is only this moment, this space; he can hear the roaring of the crowd so far below them, the thrum of the blood in his veins, the slowness of his inhale as he closes his hands around the catching swing and leaps.

They haven't done this enough, it's all been practice, it didn't matter when he'd missed, Stiles just dropped laughing to the net. It's not enough, _not enough_ , his hands are clutching at air as he flips in the downward catching position, and he can't stop the panic that's rising in his throat, choking him as surely as the smoke he's swinging through.

" _Derek_!"

He lifts his head, can barely make out the features on Stiles' face through the gloom.

"You've got me. Ready?" Derek nods numbly, his hands opening, body straining as he pushes the swing harder, back, then forward again. "On three. One....two..."

The clasp is solid, full connection of all four hands, and if Stiles' fingers are digging into his forearms hard enough to bruise, well, Derek's sure that Stiles will be sporting matching marks on his own skin.

\--


	6. Chapter Six (He flew through the air with the greatest of ease)

"Hey kid, you about ready to go?"

Stiles shoves half-heartedly at the contents of the bowl in front of him with his spoon, yanking at his buttoned collar with his free hand.

"I guess so."

Stilinski settles into the chair across from him and pushes a socked foot into a boot, leaning over to do up the laces.

"You remember what you need to say?"

"Yeah, I need to talk about when they took me, and I need to tell them everything that Kate said while she was there." He eats a spoonful of porridge, grimacing at the taste. "And I need to tell them about how she kept turning up here and stalking Derek." He scowls and pushes it away from him, chewing absently on his spoon. His father looks up at him consideringly before sliding his other foot into its boot. "I'm not telling them what she said about us, though, Dad. About me and Derek. That's private."

Stilinski nods and nudges the bowl of porridge back across the table to sit in front of his son.

"Finish." Stiles rolls his eyes, but shoves his spoon back in. "That's fine, Stiles. Just make sure you don't leave out anything incriminating.” He frowns, his light eyes tired. “Allison's testimony is what's really going to sell the case, but the more supporting evidence they can get to show Kate's obsessions and insanity, the better. You're the third most important witness, right after Allison and Derek, so don't try to edit too much, ok?"

"Yeah, I know. Trust me, I want her gone just as much as anyone." Stiles' tone is tight, bitter, flat in the room.

"Hey." Stiles shoves the spoon in his mouth and looks up questioningly. "What gives, kid? You should be happy about this, she's gonna get sent away for good."

Stiles pushes the bowl away again, holds his hands flat in front of him andd watches the fine tremor as they hover above the wooden surface of the table. "I _am_ glad about that, I just... I hate that it has to happen this way.” He's angry now, his voice rising, his fingers clutching at each other and pressing hard to keep from shaking. “I _hate_ that Allison has to be related to such horrible people, and that she has to sit up there and testify against her own family. And I _hate_ that Derek has to do it too, that he has to get up there and go over the horrible things that killed _his_ whole family, and that he has to even be in the same room with her again." He unclenches his fingers, spreads his hands on the table. "I'm glad they're going away. I just don't like that there has to be more shit before they're gone."

Stilinski reaches out and pats him on the shoulder, his grip sure and solid as Stiles leans into it, pushing into his father's touch.

“Listen, son.” Stilinski swallows hard, his fingers digging into the meat of Stiles' back, his voice rough. “She tried to _kill_ you. She nearly succeeded. If Derek hadn't...”

“I _know_ , Dad. I know.” Stiles slumps under his father's hand, head drooping as he exhales. He lifts his chin, straightening up and meeting his father's eyes. “But I'm okay, I'm here.”

Stilinski takes a deep breath, looks away, shakes his head slowly. 

“If Derek hadn't swung out to catch you...” He pauses, breathes slowly through his nose. “If you hadn't trusted him enough to jump, you would have died.” His father's voice is wrecked, steady through the force of will but thin at the edges and pained. “If you hadn't been able to climb up the ropes and reach the catching platform, if _one little thing_ had gone wrong...”

“Dad.” Stiles buries his head into his father's cotton-covered shoulder and hangs on, listening to the rasping of their lungs, the silent rush of shared blood in their veins. “It's okay. I'm _here_.”

They sit for another minute, then Stilinski shakes himself, smiling crookedly and reaching out to straighten Stiles' jacket. 

“C'mon, kid. Let's go put an end to this.”

\--

Lydia, of course, is spectacular. She takes the stand in a new blue dress that she and her mother had fetched from San Francisco in the week before the trial. Her hair is perfectly coiffed under her matching feathered hat, and her earrings swing gently as she settles herself demurely into the chair provided. Stiles has always admired her, in every way- her intelligence, her physical prowess in the ring, her capacity to cut through bullshit at will, her ability to ruthlessly manipulate those around her- but watching her manage the judge, the lawyers, and the jury all at once is watching a master at work. Stiles wants to get down and kiss the toes of her perfectly polished boots, and he's pretty sure he's not the only one in the room having that urge.

It's clear from the start that the judge is not prepared to take her seriously, which Stiles could have told him was a mistake, but the lawyer that Deaton called in from the city knows what he's doing, and has apparently been told to follow Lydia's lead. Leave it to Deaton to have the connections, Stiles thinks, but he certainly can't complain.

The lawyer walks her carefully through all of it, deferring politely to her as though she is a delicate flower- how she found the articles her mother had kept about Derek's family, letting it sound like a pretty girl's interest in a darkly handsome young man; how she wrote letters to Deaton's sisters, the Morrells, who had survived the blaze, asking them for details about how the fire was set, how quickly it caught. The defense narrows its eyes at this, and takes a moment to try and imply that no proper young lady would be interested in such a thing- unfortunately for him, ,he underestimates the impact his words can actually have when confronted with the clear image in front of everyone of the most proper young lady anyone could hope for. Lydia widens her eyes and lets a couple of tears fall as she describes her fears for her beloved horses, should anything similar ever happen to their tents. She produces a lace-edged hankie from her sleeve and describes her terror at the thought that anyone could do such terrible things, that such wicked people could ever threaten her or those around her. Her cheeks flush, her bosom heaves, and Stiles can practically smell the sympathy rising in a fragrant cloud from the jury, the gentle coos of sympathy rising throughout the courtroom as Lydia dabs at her eyes. Jackson comes up in his suit and coat to comfort her, his attractive face dark with fury that anyone should upset his fiancee so, glaring so fiercely at the hapless defense lawyer that he takes a cautious step backward.

 The defense settles, and Lydia continues.

 If Stiles didn't know her, he would absolutely believe that Lydia's interest in science is only passing, that she only learned about chemicals and solutions to help Mrs. McCall in the infirmary, that she was simply looking for a good and charitable way to keep herself occupied in their downtime, a way to be of service to her community as every good young lady should. Her face projects both awe and a certain self-deprecation as she describes her “idle wonderings” about whether there might be some substance that could be applied to tent walls to make them less flammable. Her description of how she had Danny procure the ingredients, and the twins apply the resulting mixture to strips of canvas and set them alight, sounds like nothing more than girlish fantasies and the efforts of a group of well-meaning but hoodwinked boys trying to please their pretty friend. It sounds nothing at all like the actual exacting scientific experiment Stiles is sure that it was in reality- he can picture it now, Lydia in her riding trousers and a braid, timing the ignition of each piece of cloth and recording it meticulously in a notebook, then supervising as the boys took it in turns to paint the retardant onto the walls of the Big Top.

 The only sticking point comes when the defense manages to bring out the fact that she had kept the whole proceeding secret, and makes a last-ditch effort to paint her actions as dangerous subterfuge. It fails, of course- Lydia speaks winningly of only doing her duty as a daughter and a lady to focus her efforts on the safety and well-being of her family, and then segues smoothly into a self-righteous speech on the necessity of keeping her silly experiments to herself, so as not to distress anyone unduly, finally ending teary-eyed upon the most salient point (to Stiles, anyway), that, had Kate known that anyone suspected her presence or her history, no doubt that person would have met a swift and untimely end.

 She swans out of the courtroom on Jackson's arm, leaning on him for support and mincing her steps in a way that Stiles recognizes as a perfect imitation of her favorite horse, which makes him have to turn and bury his face in Derek's shoulder as he giggles through a wave of faint hysteria.

It's Derek who takes the stand after Lydia, clean-shaven and starched to within an inch of his life. Nurse McCall herself had overseen his pressing, combing, and straightening, and the effect is impressive. Stiles wants to admire a job well-done, but can't think past the buzzing in his ears as Derek takes the stand.

Derek's questioning is exhaustive and excruciating- he was there when Stiles was retrieved from the basement of the Hunters' house, and was the one who heard her admit to setting the Morrell fire. Stiles sits through it all on the wooden bench in the second row, forcing himself to listen to every word. If Derek has to speak the words, forcing them out grim-faced and hurting, then the least Stiles can do is listen to them, let every one of them settle into his skin.

Some parts of Derek's testimony against Kate are not directly relevant to the case at hand- the judge had specifically instructed all of them to remember that the defendants were only on trial for the crimes committed here, in California- however given that previous events certainly were at the root of the crimes which occurred, even those parts of Derek's statements are crucial. Stiles looks out the window as Derek lists the names of his dead family- he can see daffodils sprouting in front of the courthouse, their fragile yellow blooms opening tissue-paper petals to the weak sun. What were Talia's favorite flowers, he wonders. Did Cora like spring more than summer or fall? Stiles can see their faces in his mind, black and white and smiling.

Derek does fine in the end, Stiles thinks- Stilinski and Deaton had coached him thoroughly on how to present himself- confident, but not cocky; serious, but not grim; sober, but not furious; humble, but not passive. He answers the questions quietly, elaborating when asked.

When he's finished, Derek is ushered out through a side aisle, and it hurts, it hurts that Stiles is not allowed to see him, to touch.

Stiles himself goes next, though he can barely remember what he says afterward. He does his best to look young and harmless, earnest and troubled by the chain of events. He describes his kidnapping, Kate's role in it, and doesn't need to pretend at all to showcase the utter fear that Gerard inspired in him. Nurse McCall and his father will both be up later to testify to his rescue, and the extent of his injuries, he knows. He sticks to his story when cross-examined, ignores Kate's smirking face from the table in front and to the left, and when he is done, makes it behind the courthouse before he's retching into the bushes.

Scott finds him as he's throwing up for the second time, waits for him to finish, then hands him a hankie.

 “You gonna come back in?”

 Stiles mops his face, spits. His gut is still roiling, but the fresh air is helping to clear his head.

 “Yeah. Allison's up next?”

 “Yeah.”

 Stiles shoves the abused hankie into his pocket, leans in to wrap his arm around his friend's shoulders, bumping against him to lift the hangdog look from Scott's face.

 “Hey. She can handle this.” Scott nods halfheartedly, his tie limp and his gaze downcast. “No, really. She can. Yeah, it's shit, I can't even imagine having to testify against your own family for killing people, but Allison is tough, and you know it.” Scott nods again, a little more firmly. He straightens up, balancing Stiles' weight against his own as he meets Stiles eyes. “And besides, she's got you and her dad with her. He may not be the best guy, but at least he doesn't seem to have known about all the murdering. He's agreed to testify to the circumstantial evidence against his sister and his father for it, he can't be all bad.” Stiles shrugs. “Allison said he's left the church and rejected the rest of his family, didn't she? They're reconciling, right?” Scott nods, looking hopeful again. Stiles claps him on the back. “So, she's got her dad again, and she's got you. And you're great! It'll be awful for a while, and then it'll be okay again.”

 “Yeah.” Scott starts to smile. “Yeah, you're right.” He stands, holds out his hand. “C'mon. I don't want her to start without me there.”

 “That's the spirit, buddy.”

–

Lydia was flawless, Stiles was steady, and Derek was heart-breaking, but it's Allison who closes the coffin lid and nails it. Stiles hurts to see her pale face, her chin lifted even as her hands clench and unclench in the lap of her somber dress, can see the toll it's taking on her to list the myriad sins of her aunt and grandfather, knowing what it will cost them. She doesn't flinch, doesn't hesitate from the task in front of her. For all that she didn't know about any of the wrong-doing until recently, the sudden revelations apparently allowed her to piece together a thousand small incidents from her childhood, hundreds of throw-away details that no one bothered to hide from a child. They're individually inconsequential, but stitched together and set into the proper context, they create an incredibly damning fabric of systematic hatred and violence spanning years and miles.

The prosecution is gentle with the litany, letting her pause to compose herself as needed, pulling the details from her with a firm but precise hand. In the end, she knows far too much- any chance Kate and Gerard had of getting off lightly was gone as soon as she stepped onto the stand. Stiles supposes it's easy to be careless around a child, especially if you assume that they will always be on your side, when you've groomed them from birth to subscribe to your beliefs, to hold your values. How could you imagine that they would betray you? That they would run to those you hold most hated, and then turn their face against you?

She leaves the courtroom with her father, both of them looking drawn and grim. Stiles sees Scott make a hasty exit out the back door to catch them- he'd met Allison's father last week, and it wasn't going well, but small things like prejudice never put a dent in Scott's eternal optimism, so Stiles imagined he'd be following Mr. Argent around for a good long while, especially considering that Allison could hardly bear to be parted from him.

The jury deliberates for two hours before emerging and speaking with the judge, his face heavy and serious, the sounds of birds chirping in the early spring air outside the courthouse completely at odds with the somber silence within. He pushes his glasses up his nose, adjusts his robes, stands. Stiles heart is in his throat, choking him as he tries to draw a breath.

“The jury finds Miss Katherine Argent and her father Mr. Gerard Argent guilty of assault, kidnapping, and attempted murder. This court sentences them to fifteen years in prison, and recognizes the request of the state of Massachusetts that they be extradited to stand trial for murder.”

The gavel bangs, and the courtroom erupts into hubbub and chaos, the sudden noise and movement making Stiles' head swim and breath come short. He's forcing himself to breathe slowly, pushing the black spots from the corner of his vision, when Derek slips a hand into his own.

"Hey.” Derek's voice is soft in his ear, even across the milling babble of the crowd, “let's get out of here.”

–

“Hey.” Derek's hand comes up to touch his cheek, one blunt finger tracing the line of his eyebrow, dragging down to catch in the corner of his mouth. Stiles flicks his tongue idly out to taste the salt/dust/chalk on the end of it, then licks it again more slowly to see the change of expressions on Derek's face from curious to amused to wanting. It still amazes him that Derek is here, that Derek looks at him like that, that instead of drawing back, Derek leans in, pushes forward.

“Hey what?” Stiles grins, turning to bat idly at the sheer curtains hanging limply over the open window, flapping them with his hands to encourage the idea of a breeze. Maybe if he shows the curtains what they should be doing, they'll get the idea.

It's late October, but still hot like hell during the day, the sun baking down on the orchards and fields around the camp. The circus has been back a week, settling in and opening up the cabins, repairing equipment and getting set up for the start of their winter shows, but it's hard to keep the energy up in this heat, hard to air out the rooms with the lack of a breeze. They'd stayed their last three weeks in Los Angeles, and he thinks he nearly died of heat stroke. He'd thought coming back north would mean cooling down, at least a little bit, but if anything it's worse here, away from the occasional gust of sea air.

 “Hey.” Derek smiles softly up at him from the bed, and Stiles feels his chest tighten in response, “I missed you.”

 Stiles' lips start to curve, his mouth opens, then he's falling through the hot air, pulled by a foot to the back of the knee, to land with a _whump_ on the hard planes of Derek's chest, taking a hipbone to the spleen as he goes.

 “Ugh! Jerk!” He knows he's smiling, can't help it, but he feigns annoyance anyway as he struggles up onto his elbows, smacking at Derek's chest as Derek laughs. Derek's whole face squinches up as he snickers, his eyes squeezing shut and his teeth showing, giggling harder as Stiles digs clever fingers into his side. It's hot in the still room, and they're both sweating, faces and chests flushed with heat, so Stiles gives up and lets himself fall again and stick, bare chest to bare chest.

He breathes, slowly, in and out, in and out again, listening to the steady _whoosh_ of blood through Derek's heart under his ear, feeling his own settle into a matching rhythm.

“I missed you too.” He breathes out, hears Derek's _mmm_ echo in the chambers of his chest under Stiles' ear. “I know you had to go back, but it was a long time.” A solid hand comes up to rub at the nape of his neck, and Stiles melts into the pressure of Derek's fingers, letting the aches that accumulated during his absence fall away under Derek's careful touch.

“A month.”

 “ _Forever_.”

 Derek chuckles again, making Stiles' head bounce. “Forever.”

 Stiles stills, thinking about it. Derek on the train out, a full week to get all the way back across the country to Boston. Derek sitting alone in the cars with his rucksack, watching the scenery roll by day after day after day, passing through barren desert and high mountain, plains and fields and over rivers and past lakes. Stiles has never seen any of it, never been past the Sierras, but he's seen pictures, can imagine it spread out before the windows of a moving train-car, endless vistas and wide-open spaces. He can see him stepping off the train in the city, making his way through the streets he'd walked with his family, can see Derek catching glimpses of dark-haired children around corners, shying away from a laughing blonde woman at the beach.

Derek's been back three days, but they haven't really talked about it, and Stiles isn't sure how much they ever will. He can't imagine what it must have been like for Derek to have been back in the town where his whole family died, to have to face Kate and Gerard yet one more time, to have to sit through a trial again, to have to tell the whole story to more strangers, to have to re-live every bad thing in his life.

 “Did you stay to the end?”

 The minute the words are out of his mouth, he regrets it. He'd just been idly wondering, but hadn't meant to speak, hadn't meant to pry, but there it is, out there, words hanging in the still air.

 “Of the trial?” Derek's voice is steady, querying, so Stiles nods once against his chest. “No.” He takes a deep breath, and Stiles waits. “No. I didn't really want to know what happened to them.” Stiles lifts his head to look Derek in the eye inquiringly, and Derek shrugs affably, his eyes light-colored and open in the filtered light. “I'll find out soon enough. The case was solid, they're not getting off. Someone will send me a letter, and that will be plenty.” His face darkens slightly, his gaze going to the window. “I've seen enough people die already. If the Argents hang, I'll be relieved, but I didn't need to sit in the room while they were sentenced.”

 Stiles watches him closely for a minute, then lays his head back down, shoving his face against Derek's skin until he's comfortable. The curtains twitch halfheartedly, bringing the faint scent of rain rising on the air.

 “Did you go see them?”

 Derek is quiet for a long moment, the only motion his thumb rubbing idly over the bones in Stiles' wrist, his heart steady and sure under Stiles' ear.

 “Yes.” He pauses. “Laura, too. Got off the train in Denver for a day, borrowed a horse and rode out to see her.” He sighs, his thumb pushing, back and forth, back and forth. “I miss her the most, I think.”

 Stiles nods, silent. There's really nothing to be said, he thinks, nothing that will ever make loss go away.

 –

 Stiles wakes hours later, twilight filling the room as the sound of rain begins on the roof. There's definitely a breeze now, a chilly one, so he burrows into Derek's side, idly walking his fingers up and down Derek's ribs as he listens to the rattle of the raindrops. He can just see the edges of the photograph propped on the nightstand, light paper glowing in the darkening room.

 “If you tickle me...”

 Derek's voice is rough with sleep, growly and perfect, and Stiles grins wickedly, twisting a finger ever so slightly against sleep-warm skin.

 “If I tickle you, what...?”

 Derek growls again, and suddenly Stiles is on his back and pinned, laughing uproariously at the smug look on Derek's face as he holds Stiles in place. It's been so long, he thinks, and he knows in his head that a month is nothing, no time at all, but he's waited this whole time to feel this again, to see this face above him, hear this voice in his ear. He laughs and laughs, pushing uselessly against Derek's hold.

 “Or I'll sit on you, that's what.” Derek lowers himself slowly down on to Stiles' still shaking frame, sinking to rest his weight on Stiles' pelvis, his eyes wicked with mischief, the corner of his mouth hitching upward as he takes in Stiles' flushed face.

 “You'll sit on... _ohh_. Ohh, _yeah_ , you should do that, _mm_.” Stiles pushes up against Derek's hips, rocking them both and eliciting a satisfying gasp from Derek. Stiles bites his lip and does it again, the motion pushing the bed frame against the wall with a faint thump.

 “ _Hey_.”

 “Hmm...?” Stiles is preoccupied with trying in earnest now to get his wrists free from under Derek's grip so that he can put his hands all over him, but squirming isn't doing anything yet. Well. Not for his _wrists_ anyway. He squirms again, grinning as Derek's eyebrow raises.

 “What's this I hear about Erica and Isaac and Boyd trying to learn tumbling?”

 “Hmm?” Stiles has his tongue between his teeth, pressing up with his hips again as he tries to re-settle Derek's weight slightly further south. “Oh, yeah. I don't know whose idea it was, but they got Lydia to show them the ads for the Hale pack, and they've decided they want to do that.” He lifts his hips again, squirming upward on the bed, and Derek groans, his eyes fluttering shut. Stiles grins. “They're gonna ask you about it, they want you to train them, they want to restart the Hale Pack.”

 Derek shifts, releasing Stiles' wrists to bring his forearms down on the bed, nosing into Stiles' neck and moving his hips with unmistakable intent. Stiles tips his head back, letting Derek mouth at the underside of his jaw, bite at the line that runs from his shoulder to his ear. “They... _oh, god, yeah_....they're nervous, though, they don't know how to bring it up.” Stiles runs his hands up and down the ridges of Derek's back, clutching at him as Derek sucks a mark into Stiles' collarbone. “You gotta... _hmmm_...be nice to them.”

Derek spreads his knees, bearing down, and Stiles' brain shorts out, his feet pressing into the bed as he thrusts up, his head falling back, eyes closed, mouth open. The scent of rain and dust is everywhere in the room, mingling with the salt scent of their skin- Stiles can taste it on his tongue, can smell the fragrance of Derek's soap in the edge of his armpit, opens his mouth and licks the skin in front of him, making Derek groan.

“'m always nice,” Derek grumbles, then bites down on the arc of Stiles' shoulder, making Stiles choke on a laugh as he shakes to a stop, muscles locking tight, then releasing. Derek shudders above him, gasping through his mouth, once, twice, then falls to the side, panting as the cool air moves across their skin. Stiles can feel their bodies slowing down, hearts settling, breath evening out. He reaches over and pushes his fingers into Derek's loose hand, squeezes them together.

 “What about you?”

 “Mmm?”

 “You. What are you gonna do?”

 The room has gone dim now, nearly dark with the rain and the setting sun, but Stiles can see Derek's face turn toward him, his eyes open and questioning.

 “Well, they want you to lead the Hale Pack, of course. And you should! But.” He looks down at their fingers, curling them up and down, up and down, until Derek brings his other hand up to lift Stiles' face up to meet his own. His eyes are deep, searching, and Stiles knows it's fruitless to hold back any part of himself.

 “But?”

 “Well...” Stiles blows out a breath, tightens his grip, looks down to where their fingers are linked, his long and lean, Derek's wide and strong. “I was thinking. We have the Stupendous Stilinksi.” He can feel the bed move as Derek chuckles, tightens his grip on Derek's fingers again. “And I know you said before that you couldn't do it yet, that you couldn't till after the trial was over and the loose ends were tied up, but... what if we also had Daring Derek?”

Derek catches his breath for a second, then exhales slowly.

“Daring Derek?”

Stiles bites his lip, raises his eyes to Derek's, nods.

 Derek stares at him for a long moment, then begins to smile.

“Stupdendous Stilinski and Daring Derek.” He laughs under his breath, leans in and kisses Stiles, wet heat and soft mouth and every single thing that Stiles could ever have dreamed of and more. “Yeah. Yeah, ok.”

 

 


	7. Artwork for Holding Your Own Weight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> artwork by the lovely Elica!

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on tumblr at [zjofierose](http://zjofierose.tumblr.com/) if you like, but I'm really very boring.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cirque de la Lune - Holding Your Own Weight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169582) by [Elica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elica/pseuds/Elica)
  * [Holding your own weight: Stiles Stilinski](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177751) by [Elica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elica/pseuds/Elica)
  * [Holding Your Own Weight: Derek Hale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178004) by [Elica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elica/pseuds/Elica)




End file.
